The Phoenix
by Ace of Gallifrey
Summary: Meg's breakdown took a different path, starting off a new set of events. Erik is torn between his love for Christine and his guilt over Meg while Raoul struggles with addiction and debt. And Meg is caught up in a deadly web of lies and obsession... EM
1. Prologue

**Title-** The Phoenix  
**Pairings-** Erik/Meg, Christine/Raoul  
**Rating-** T for self-harm and some pretty rough language  
**Summary-** What if Meg's break with reality took a different path? Erik finds himself torn between his love for Christine, and his confused feelings toward Meg, while Christine has quite a lot to say on the subject. And what is to become of little Gustave?

**A/N-** Let me begin by saying I have a love/hate relationship with Love Never Dies. As in, I love the music, and I hate the OOCness. But there were some elements of the plot that I found really intriguing, and out of that, this was born. Also, just FYI, I'm using the 2004 film version of POTO for my baseline for what led up to the events of LND, complete with Meg's continual encounters with Erik's mirrors.

* * *

**Prologue**

_"Where, poor girl, do you think that he was? Yes, that's right, in with_ her _all along! Dreaming of their son, their love, too smitten to spare you one moment of thought..."_

The words chased around and around inside her head, making her feel dizzy and ill. The tears that poured from her eyes were hot, but before they dripped, unchecked, from her chin they were cold, leaving her as chilled as she felt. After all these years, after everything they had shared, she was cast aside like the gutter trash she supposed she must be. She was nothing to him just as she was nothing to all the rest. How had she become this, just a body that danced to titillate the masses and a toy to be sold to anyone whose favor needed currying? When had Meg Giry, in her pangs of innocent first love, metamorphosed into the Ooh La La Girl with the painted scarlet smile?

Her silent, frozen tears shuddered into painful, wracking sobs and she lurched to her feet in a flurry of violet silk. In a desperate attempt to alleviate her inner turmoil, she hurled her little pot of rouge across the room, but no satisfaction came from the smash against the wall. Her comb, her bottles of perfume and all her fine, useless nonsense quickly followed, but their was no relief from the twisting in her heart. In a hysterical outburst, she lifted the stool from before her dressing table and threw it as far as she was able, but with no effect.

Chest heaving with emotion, she whirled and stared into the eyes of her reflection in the mirror.

Her blonde curls were the artifice of the hot iron, a pathetic imitation of Christine's gorgeous locks. Her tears had smudged the kohl she had rimmed her eyes with, sending rivers of black down her cheeks. Her blue eyes, which once used to sparkle like the sky at dawn, the only thing she possessed that was finer than Christine's, looked flat and lifeless liked dolls eyes. The only color she had left was that which she had smeared on with a brush. Meg Giry had disappeared into the dark. The mask she painted on each day was all that was left.

Disgust filled her. The girl she used to be was gone, and a soulless tart had taken her place. She felt more hideous now than anyone had ever thought _him_ to be (not her, she had never thought him anything but handsome since that first night far beneath the smouldering wreck of the opera house). She reached for one leg of the stool, which had broken off when she had smashed it against the far wall. She swung the wooden post wildly into the silver surface of the mirror, hoping to destroy the empty face she couldn't believe belonged to her. The mirror exploded in a shower of glass, which spilled across the surface of the dressing table and the flouncy skirts she wore.

She dropped to her knees in the carpet of glass shards, looking to see if they would show her Meg Giry again now that they were as shattered as the inside of her head felt. Only the Ooh La La Girl looked back at her, face twisted in a parody of a smile.

Briefly, the idea of vengeance on the ones who had destroyed her flitted across her mind, but it just seemed like too much effort. She did not want to leave this place. She just wanted to sleep. If she had been able to gain her feet, perhaps she would have gone to the pier one last time. It would have been a bitter irony. It also required her to walk, and she just did not have the energy.

Her hands, with those scarlet-lacquered nails she had hated so much once upon a time but which had now become almost second nature to paint on, shook as she lifted one jagged shard of the broken mirror, an idea drifting hazily through her mind. Slowly, she nodded, and a spurt of hysterical giggles rose up in her throat.

Then she got to her feet, moving like a sleepwalker, and found a piece of paper. In her neat handwriting (maybe the only thing about her that was still proper and tidy) she put down five words; she folded the paper and wrote on the outside the name of her tormentor in that same innocent-looking script. A hideous grin crossed her face as she slipped it into the frame that once contained her mirror, held in place by one last fragment of glass that remained in the frame so they would all be sure to see it. This had all begun with a broken mirror, so many years ago, and it was fitting that it would end with one. She had been a dead woman walking from the moment she had stepped through his shattered mirrors and found him. It was only just catching up to her now.

She sank back to the ground and arranged her skirt around her, then lifted the shard of glass. For the longest moment she hesitated, staring at her eyes in the reflection, waiting just a bit more in the hopes that her real face would look back at her once more, but it was a vain hope. She lowered the sharp edge to the delicate skin of her wrist, and with a smile still on her face, she dug down...


	2. Liu's Aria

**A/N-** For an explanation of some stuff in this chapter, you have to understand the background on Turandot, which, yes, was not performed until 1926 but what can I say? I'm taking a bit of creative license with timelines. Just assume Puccini's so awesome his music can time travel, m'kay? Anyway, here's a link explaining the significance of Liu's aria to anyone who doesn't know it. I always equate Christine and her love/hate relationship with her Angel of Music with Turandot and her love/hate relationship with Calaif, and where does that leave Meg? Well, Meg must be Liu, of course!

http: / /en(DOT)wikipedia(DOT)org / wiki / Tu_che_di_gel_sei_cinta

* * *

**Chapter 1: Liu's Aria**

It was a triumph, Christine thought, heart swelling as her strange angel came to her side. "Christine," he whispered, in that voice which had never failed to send shivers right through her, even in the days when she hated him. "Ah Christine, what a triumph you gave me tonight. All those dark silent years..."

"I know," she said, placing a hand on his chest to feel the comforting beat of his heart, in tempo with her own racing pulse as the pure enraptured joy of performing surrounded her again for the first time in so many years. "I know." It had been foolish, she supposed, to think that she could ever be free of him. From the moment he had first sung to her, they had been bound together. At times she had hated him. After she had kissed him that first time, when at last she had understood just how sad and lonely he was, she had loved him. Sometimes in the years between then and now, she had felt a strange mixture of both in her heart. He was a complex man, and what she felt for him was a complex thing, and still she hardly knew him beyond their music. The music, though... the music had always been perfect. Tonight had been a balm for both their souls.

But something wasn't quite right. Where was her son? "Gustave," she murmured.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Where's Gustave?" Panic filled her, because _right now_ was too perfect and she had long ago learned that perfection couldn't last long. "He was meant to be here!"

At that very moment, the boy came pelting through the doors, face white and eyes huge. He crashed into his mother, clutching at her skirt. "Mother, something's wrong!" he cried.

"What is it, Gustave?" she asked, taking his hands in her own.

"It's Miss Giry, Mother. I found her in her dressing room... she's hurt!"

Christine felt her heart stop for a moment. Meg, the dear friend whom she had hardly given a thought to in the aftermath of the devastation of l'Opera Populaire, the woman who had been her sister in all but blood for so many years... She glanced up at the man beside her, and his face was suddenly unreadable. Before she even had a moment to try and decipher what his eyes were saying, he had whirled and was gone, sprinting down the hall. Christine picked up her skirts and followed as quickly as she was able in her elegant gown, with Gustave right beside her.

When Christine entered the dressing room, she let out a cry as she found a scene of destruction inside, but the greatest horror lay in the center of the room. Meg, still in her costume, lay in a pile of broken glass. Her skin, which usually glowed a pale shade of gold from the same palette as her hair, was bleached white and her vacant blue eyes stared at the ceiling. She was breathing, but barely, and her wrists were slashed wide open, spilling blood sluggishly across the floorboards.

The man she had known under a dozen different assumed titles had flown to Meg's side and ineffectually plucked the piece of glass which had done the deed from her limp fingers. "Meg... _MEG!_" he cried, a note of pure panic in his voice. Christine hurried to join him and, careful to avoid the puddle of Meg's blood, knelt down beside them both.

Those beautiful blue eyes blinked hazily as Meg, barely conscious, tried to focus on them. Drawing on her last reserves of strength, she opened her mouth, took a breath, and sang softly: "_Tu che di gel sei cinta, vinta dal fuoco tale, si lo ami __anche tu!_" Her voice was weak, but still sweet even after so many years after performing just the dregs of the Angel of Music's creative talent. Her eyes closed and her breath, already shallow, nearly ceased altogether.

"Was that...?" Christine asked.

He nodded. His expression was closed and his jaw was clenched, as if he were trying very hard to keep control of himself. "Puccini," he confirmed.

Then, without another moment of hesitation, he lifted his star's tiny, broken body in his arms and raced from the room and past Miss Fleck, who had come to see what the clamor was about. "Go get help!" he shouted at her, voice cracking desperately on the last word. "Fetch a doctor!" When she didn't move immediately he let out an animal cry of equal parts fear and frustration. "For god's sake, Fleck, go!" Christine didn't think she'd ever seen him this agitated, and she had known him at what she thought must be some of the darkest periods in his sad history.

The moment, Fleck had moved to follow his instructions, he was gone, sprinting down the hall in the direction of the stairs that led to the upper floor, beyond the reach of the milling crowds and out of the way of the hundreds of workers who helped Mister Y's shows run smoothly. Christine stared after him.

* * *

Erik lay her gently on the divan in the reception room. He had several of these plush little rooms on the upper levels, on the off-chance that private business with some of his more wealthy patrons needed to be conducted within his concert hall, but now it served the purpose of being secluded and quiet and safe... She was hardly breathing. Her pulse, when he found the telltale place at her neck, was weak and fluttery... _Oh god, Meg!_

She was even paler than before, and he was so glad he'd had the foresight to try and elevate her injuries as much as he could to prevent any further blood loss, but god she was so still... He knelt on the floor beside the couch and rested his forehead against it, willing himself not to break down, not yet. It didn't occur to him to wonder why he was this panicked. It didn't occur to him to wonder why he felt that if she ceased breathing completely, then so must he. As always when caught in the throes of high emotion, he didn't stop to think about it, he simply sank into the depths of his mind and gave himself over. And in this moment, he was drowning in a sea of despair.

"What have you done, Meg?" he whispered. "Oh god, what have you done?"

There was no question that she had made the cuts herself. The bloody shard of broken mirror which now resided, deceptively harmless, in his pocket, had been clutched in her fingers when he entered her dressing room. What on earth could have provoked her to such an act? He had always known Meg to be such a bright, happy individual, a little ray of sunshine. Why would she attempt to take her own life? He was the one prone to fits of suicidal madness, not Meg. Not sweet, optimistic Meg...

Christine entered the room softly. "One of the stagehands pointed the way," she said softly, as if she were afraid to break the tense quiet she had walked into. "Gustave is with that Miss Fleck. She said the doctor was on his way."

He looked up at her from where he slumped at Meg's side and she looked down at him and there was an understanding passing between them, but neither quite knew what it was. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but at that moment, the doctor Fleck had sent for bustled efficiently into the room. He was a stout gentleman with a moustache and a pair of spectacles that sat squarely before myopic blue eyes, and he carried the tools of his trade in a little carpetbag.

"Oh dear dear dear," he murmured, upon seeing Meg's pallor and the drops of blood that still flowed freely from her wrists. He moved to her side and Erik rose and stepped back as much as the doctor required to reach his patient and no more.

The doctor made a few hasty examinations, checking her pulse and respiration. Once satisfied that his patient was, in fact, still alive, he set about binding her wrists with gauze, wrapped tightly around the wounds to prevent any further blood loss. Then he glanced up at Erik.

"Will she... I mean, is she...?" Erik did not seem able to articulate.

The doctor removed his spectacles grimly. "It's hard to say," he said. "The lady appears to have lost a great deal of blood, but it's possible that with a transfusion we may yet be able to save her. I've discovered in the course of my work that these things are usually most successful with a family member..." He trailed off pointedly.

Erik strode to the door and leaned his head into the hallway, catching the eye of the first passerby he saw, one of the spotlight boys. "Send for Madame immediately," he barked. "Run! Now! Bring her here as swiftly as you can!" Then he returned to Meg's side. "Her mother," he explained to the doctor. "Her mother will be here as quickly as she is able."

"That may not be swift enough, sir," the doctor informed him gravely. "You may just have found her in time but if we don't hurry..."

"Well then for god's sake use me, then!" Erik roared, which caused the little man to shrink in on himself in the face of the much taller man's near-hysteria.

Christine sank bonelessly onto a little chair in the corner and watched with equal parts terror and wonder as her teacher and her love allowed the doctor to draw several vials of his blood, which he then injected into Meg's veins. A tiny hint of color returned to the blonde's cheeks... but only just a hint. She no longer looked as though she was a corpse, but she still appeared only just this side of death's doorway.

"Well?" Erik asked impatiently.

The doctor shrugged. "There is nothing more I can do. Hopefully the transfusion will take, and if it does, she will live. If not... well, you'll know within the hour." He shook his head and would not meet their eyes. "I'll wait in the next room in case something changes," he said softly, and took his leave of them.

Erik felt a little queasy. He had never been fond of doctors, and the portion of his blood he had lost for Meg's sake was making him feel a touch lightheaded. Christine rose to her feet and glided to where he stood staring down at his little star, and guided him unwillingly to a chair a few feet further from the unconscious girl. Dear god, she was still so young. Just twenty-eight in two months' time... What would he do if she didn't survive?

"She sang Liu's aria," he mumbled, not sure if he was speaking to himself or Christine. "Why... what's the significance? I don't..." The tiny aria had a huge meaning behind it and Erik knew it. It was a song of love, of sacrificing oneself for a love so great it could not be borne, of honorable death for the sake of the beloved's happiness. But what on earth did all this mean to Meg? What the hell was she doing? Oh god, she couldn't die...

Christine placed a hand on his shoulder, and the other reached into the pocket of her gown. "I found this tucked into the corner of her mirror," she said, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper.


	3. Hell Hath No Fury

**A/N-** Ordinarily, I name Mme. Giry Antoinette. However, for this story, you will see that I've named her Madeleine. This is for two reasons. One, I want to differentiate my LND fic from my POTO fic. Two, for what I have planned out I'm going to be drawing heavily on Sadie Montgomery's novels (which, incidentally, are the _real_ sequel to POTO, not LND, as far as I'm concerned) and in that series of books she's named Madeleine. It just seems to suit her in this particular characterization I'm trying to build.

And yes, that little mention of _Sempre Libera_ will become important at some point down the line. It's one of my favorite arias. See if you can find a recording of La Stupenda singing it, because it's glorious. (Then again, I'm inclined to think anything Sutherland sings is glorious because she has the most beautiful voice _ever_.)

* * *

**Chapter 2: Hell Hath No Fury**

"It's addressed to someone named Erik," Christine said, holding Meg's note gingerly in her gloved hands.

He stared blankly at the piece of paper. "That's me," he said. "That's my name."

Christine's beautiful dark eyes widened. "Your name," she murmured softly. "I... I never knew your name."

"It was never important." He shrugged it off. They had their music to bind them together. What need had they of names? And yet, somehow it _was_ important. His name was something known only to three people (four, now that Christine had learned his last secret): himself, Madame, and Meg. There was something he treasured about being called by his given name, something he couldn't quite put a label on, but he knew that his name was a secret given only to those he cared for and trusted.

It was with regret that he realized that he had told Meg before he had told Christine, the woman who had made love to him. She had touched him not even knowing his name... He captured her lovely long fingers in his and brought her hand around so that he could kiss the tips of those fingers, and he wondered why he had never trusted her with that last secret.

She let out a sigh, whose cause he couldn't determine. Then she handed him the note.

He didn't want to open this. He didn't want to see what words Meg could possibly have penned before attempting to take her own life. Especially while there was still a chance the attempt might succeed. He felt shaky and he couldn't recall being this afraid in years. But he had no real choice. He slowly unfolded the paper and, with Christine peering over his shoulder, read the short missive in Meg's tidy script.

_It was all for you_.

Christine's sharp intake of air told him he was not misinterpreting it. This was the kind of note a tragic lover in a story would leave for her beloved upon her deathbed. But Meg had never harbored any such feelings for him. Why should she, when he had been little more than cold and distant toward her these past ten years?

At that moment, Madeleine Giry came into the room. For once, she did not slip in with the same silence and grace she usually had mastered down to a perfect art. She came in with panic in her eyes and her skirts flapping inelegantly around her ankles. It was obvious she had sprinted here. "My child!" she cried, rushing to her insensate daughter's side. "My little Meg! What has happened?"

"She has attempted to take her life," Christine said in a soothing voice. "The doctor performed a transfusion, but we won't know for a little while yet if it... well. We've made her as comfortable as we can under the circumstances."

Madeleine clutched at her daughter's limp hand and ran the other over her forehead, smoothing back the blonde hair that had been teased into elaborate curls for the stage. "Oh my little girl," she whispered, tears apparent in her voice. "Oh my child... I should never have left you alone so distraught. I should have known better, I... I..."

"What are you talking about?" Erik asked in a low voice, rising to his feet.

At the sound of his voice, his oldest friend rose from her unconscious daughter's bedside and whirled to face him. "This is your fault!" she said, marching right up to him, and despite her short stature and his violent history, he felt terribly frightened of her in that moment. There was a kind of mad light in Madeleine's eyes that made him feel as if he were that same dirty, abused boy he had been when they first met, very small under her gaze.

"What?" he whispered.

"You had to have known!" she cried. "You had to have known how Meg felt!"

He took a step away from her, shaking his head. "I don't understand, Madeleine, what...?" But he _did_ understand, didn't he? He hadn't until Meg sang those words earlier, he hadn't even guessed, but the aria that might have been her swan song combined with Madeleine's angry words and the note she had left that now burned against his palm all came together to form a terrifyingly clear picture. It was an idea he rejected intensely, but it was hard to deny based on the evidence.

"She loves you, Erik! God only knows why, you've never been anything but distant at best and cruel at worst, but she loves you!" Madeleine said. "Always before, I have allowed you to brush me off on the subject of Meg! Always, I have put her second for your sake! I was your mother first, and then when Christine came to the opera house all those years ago, you told me to pay special attention to her, and so I did. I forsook the care of my own young daughter to lavish the attention she deserved on _your_ protégé."

She turned momentarily to the pale chanteuse who stood to the side of their angry tableau. "I do not regret caring for you, Christine. You are my daughter in all but blood, and you know that. I only regret that I failed my own child in doing so. And I did that because you asked me to!" She was glaring at Erik again.

"When I have come to you, time and time again this last year, I have told you to set aside your foolish dream of Christine Daae! I have urged you to forget what could never have been and come see Meg's show. She was desperate just to have your approval. Though she loved you, she felt she needed nothing more than your approval of her performance, but always, you refused to come. Not even once. And I confronted you, over and over. Don't tell me you don't remember. Don't tell me you don't remember all those nights when you shouted at me to get out! I told you the truth- that Christine could not be yours any more, but you wouldn't listen. Well, you will listen now, Erik, because it is your blindness that has done this!"

Christine sank down on the chair Erik had vacated a few minutes before. "Oh Meg," she whispered softly, eyes trained intently on her friend.

Madeleine shook her head, still glaring at Erik. "She told me she loved you from the first moment she laid eyes on you. That night, beneath the burning opera house, when _she_ had abandoned you-" Her gaze shot to Christine and softened only a moment before returning to Erik in anger. "-Meg found you. She found you crying that night, sobbing on the floor and she picked you up and she nursed you through your fever and she pleaded with me to take pity on you and help you. If it had not been for Meg, I would gladly have left you to die then, or turned you over to the gendarmes. I was angry with you for destroying my livelihood and my daughter's future with the opera, but she interceded with me on your behalf. She never hated you. She never feared you. She only ever felt compassion and love, even when you raged at her and told her in your fury that she was nothing compared to the great Christine Daae. And yet she gave everything she had, and for you! Everything a young woman holds most dear, she gave for your sake!"

Something about her tone gave him the clue as to her meaning, but Erik didn't want to believe it. He prayed he was wrong about what his oldest friend was implying. "What are you saying?" he said in a low, anxious voice.

"Do you remember? Six years ago now... do you remember how it was, back then?"

Erik did remember. They had been in America just over four years at that point, and the money leftover from his outrageous salaries at the opera house had finally run out. They had been working for some time as performers in a side show run by a corpulent hunk of lard named Jasper Anderson, but the income from Meg's dancing and his music just wasn't enough. They were set to be evicted from even their modest apartments, and he couldn't bear to see his saviors on the street. So he had done the only thing he could do, the one thing he had refused Anderson up until that point.

"You always told us not to follow you," Madeleine said bitterly. "When you would go to the side show each evening... for a late performance, you said. An extra show by the mysterious masked virtuoso. But you told us not to follow. Meg... oh, she was always a curious girl. She followed you back to the grounds and saw what you did there. She saw you chained up on display, in a cage, your face bare before the jeering crowds. She saw you bearing the deepest humiliation the world could inflict upon you, and it nearly destroyed her belief in the goodness of mankind. When she came home that night, she wept for hours in my arms. She cursed God and man alike, and I thought she would never stop crying. But then she dried her tears and stood up and said she wouldn't let you suffer so any longer. She said you'd borne enough of the world's cruelty. And the next night, she went to Mr. Anderson and bargained for your freedom. She bargained for him to end the deal the two of you had made."

Erik's mouth was dry and he felt helpless, directionless anger welling up in him, already reacting viciously against the truth he knew Madeleine was about to reveal, and he didn't want to hear it! But he must. "Bargained?" he asked, feigning incomprehension. "But what had she to bargain with? We had no money..."

"She paid for your release with her innocence," the older woman said bluntly, anger in her eyes.

His head was spinning. "No," he whispered. Behind him, he heard Christine choke out, "Oh Meg," but her voice couldn't drag him out of the howling tunnel of regret and confusion in his mind. Meg, the innocent girl like light incarnate, had sold her body to save him? He remembered those days, remembered feeling as if he might die if he had to hear one more sneering voice comment on the sickening face of the demon spawn in the cage. He remembered Anderson telling him their deal was off, that he would gladly raise his salary for his usual performances, that there was no need for the lurid after-hours exposition any longer. Meg had bought him his release? Oh god...

"No," he said again, shaking his head as if denial would drive away what Madeleine had said.

"Yes," she said mercilessly. "Meg cried when she came back, smelling of him. She cried and confessed what she had done and I cleaned her up and cared for her. Anderson was rough."

"No, no no no no!" he said, wishing he could shut it all out. Meg should not cry. Meg should never cry, and she should _never_ weep on his behalf!

"And it didn't stop there, Erik. We thought it would be just the once, but as you bought the sideshow from that scum and started to transform it into what it is today... Well, things happened. Local bosses needed to be convinced. Politicians needed to be appeased. When bills came due and we didn't have the money because you'd spent it all on Phantasma, someone had to buy time for you to get together the cash. The favor of the press needed currying. And only the pretty French Ooh La La Girl could sway any of them... for a price. The price of her body."

"Stop it," he pleaded, but she would not take pity on him this time.

"I tried to get her to stop, of course. I told her there must be another way, and for a time we would try to find alternatives... but there just wasn't anything. We didn't have the money until Phantasma opened, and so she gave herself again. She said it was alright, that _she_ was alright, because she loved you. She was glad to give everything she had if it helped the one she loved. I tried to help, but there was nothing I could do. I had to watch, all these years, while her soul was destroyed, piece by piece, day by day. More than once, she was raped."

He was in the chair. He didn't remember sitting down. There were tears running down his face. He didn't remember when he'd started crying. "Oh Meg," he choked out. His voice sounded strange to his ears, keening and hollow, and he realized it was because he was just barely restraining a sob.

Madeleine laughed bitterly and without even the slightest trace of humor. "When I heard you composing again, _really_ composing, these last few months, I thought... I thought, finally he has seen her! He is composing something wonderful for her at last. She wanted your music so desperately, you know. When she realized you were only going to give her that cheap trash you wrote for her shows, she found a tutor in the city and studied with him, a Mr. Aligieri. You've heard of him, I know. He was a good teacher for her, though not what you would have been. Meg learned quickly and she learned well, hoping to please you. She mastered _Sempre Libera_ in a month."

"But that's-"

"One of the most difficult arias in the soprano repertoire, I know," Madeleine spat. "She is a true lyric spinto, Erik. If you had taught her, she would have been singing at the Met all this time. She has a glorious voice, but you would never see it. I think you have always known, but you refused to acknowledge it. No, not for you a woman of flesh and blood, with the voice to stand up to your compositions, who has only ever loved you and shown you kindness! Why take a woman who is real and whole and adores you when you could waste away for a memory of a woman who spurned you?"

Her hissing, caustic rage spilled over him, and Erik felt laid bare by her accusations which he could not defend himself against. Had he known the depth of Meg's talent? Yes. When they had been just children, her voice had been better than Christine's. If it had not been for his promise to Madeleine to leave her daughter alone, he might have taken her on as a pupil instead. By the time he and Meg had come into a real acquaintance, it had been too late for her to become the same kind of talent Christine was, but he had been all too aware that she still had an incredible amount of potential. Yes, she could have sung at the Met. She could have been a true diva.

But he had held back. He had been afraid, afraid that if he taught someone else, it would somehow take away from what he and Christine had shared. He was under no delusions about himself, and knew himself to be a selfish man, but now he realized that his desire to keep Christine's memory unique, to refuse to hear the other beautiful voice at his command might have destroyed Meg. Beautiful, brave, compassionate Meg, who had dragged him out of the darkness and forced him to live once again... No. Oh god, how had this happened?

"When I told her you were composing again, she looked so happy. She hoped perhaps you might have realized how talented she was, even though you _still_ refused to come to her performances despite the lengths she went to in order to catch your attention. And when she realized it was all still for Christine, I think her heart must have been broken beyond repair. And now she has... she has..."

The anger which had carried her through her tirade dissolved into despair and she covered her face in her hands, sobbing. "My poor little Meg..." she whispered brokenly. Christine flew to her side and wrapped her in a tight embrace, tears in her own eyes. She guided the older woman away and the pair of them sank onto the divan by Meg's feet, for his star was so tiny she barely took up half its length.

As for Erik, he could only sit staring at his hands, watching as his tears landed on his upturned palms. The investors and the press said that everything he touched turned to gold. His music, his art, his creative publicity stunts, his inventions, his lurid attractions here at Coney Isle... Mister Y could do no wrong. But Erik... Erik with no last name destroyed everything good that ever came to him. His friendship with Madeleine had ended long ago, long before Meg was born. Christine, by the terms of his bet with the Vicomte, was now his, but after this would she dare look at him, knowing how ill-used Meg had been under his care? And now Meg, selling herself for his sake... _oh god, Meg!_ The only good thing that had ever come from him was Gustave, and Erik was more determined than ever that his son must never know the truth of his parentage. Who would want to claim as a father a loathsome creature whose neglect might have destroyed forever the light of someone as sweet and good as Meg?

No. Meg must not fall into darkness. If she lived- and he couldn't consider the possibility that she wouldn't, because if he did he might never stop crying- he had to find a way to save her. He could not let his own ruined soul and his obsession with Christine destroy her. He knew what it was like to love someone without hope of reciprocation. He knew how it ate at the soul, and vowed that he would make her smile again. Meg would be cared for and protected. No man would touch her again.


	4. Once Upon Another Time

**A/N-** Would like to point out that even if Meg hadn't gone nutso, E/C phans wouldn't have gotten their happy, fluffy ending. If Meg hadn't had a breakdown, I guarantee she'd still have left Erik in the end. She'd have gone after her husband. That's the only acceptable and in-character behavior for Christine. She said it herself: they had their chance, they blew it, she might care for him still, but that chance has passed.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Once Upon Another Time**

It was almost silent in the room. The only sounds that passed between the three in their silent vigil were Christine and Madame's tears, and even those faded after a few minutes. Christine continued to hold the shaking older woman, and regret filled her. Madame had been a close personal friend of her father, and had acted as her surrogate mother after her own had died in childbirth. Meg had been her elder sister in all ways but blood.

Now Madame was distraught, Meg appeared to be hovering between life and death, and Christine had no idea how to help. She felt a strong urge to repay all the love and kindness they had shown her over the years, and the guilt of her own unwitting part in Meg's tragedy was eating at her. True, she'd had no way of knowing what had passed between the Giry women and her Angel, but it pained her nevertheless to know that her best friend, her dearest sister, had been slighted in favor of herself. She wished again that she had shown more sense so many years ago. Perhaps if she had made a different choice that night, the night before her wedding...

Christine loved her son with all her heart, and she would never regret his birth, not in a million years. Still, from what she had gathered of Madame's tirade, that night of passion had caused more harm than she knew. Perhaps if she had been able to curb her fear and her confused feelings about her upcoming nuptials, Erik (it still felt so strange to call him that; she had never thought of him having something so ordinary as a name!) might have been able to let her go. Maybe he would have been able to forget her had they not shared that one night together. Maybe if she had behaved differently, he would not have been blind to Meg's affections, and her poor friend would not have been jilted so thoroughly!

_Oh Meg!_ A twinge of jealousy rose in her heart at the thought of what her friend and her Angel might have shared had things been different, but she repressed it quickly. Christine wanted nothing more than she wanted all those she loved to be happy. As she had told Erik just yesterday, though she loved him, she knew far better than he that all was useless between them. They had made their choices. Once upon another time... perhaps. But they had played their cards and the time when a romance between them could ever have ended happily was long past. Now, all Christine wanted was for everyone she loved to be happy. She wanted to find a way to ease Madame's distress. She wanted Meg to open her eyes and smile like she used to, before years and abuse turned her into the stroppy, painted-up showgirl Christine had encountered yesterday. She wanted to find Raoul and mend the rift between them.

At the thought of her husband, Christine realized with a start that she hadn't seen him since he'd begged her to forgo the performance. Worry plucked at her, but she could not abandon her dearest friends in this hour of need! After she was sure Meg would be well again, there would be plenty of time to seek out her husband and beg his forgiveness. For now, she would sit here with her arm around Madame's quaking shoulders, watching Meg with one eye and Erik with the other.

Erik... she mentally shook her head at the wonder of him. He was not the same man she had known all those years ago. Then again, she'd hardly known him even then. Now, though, there was an air of confidence about him that hadn't been there before. Living aboveground suited him, she supposed. At the moment though, he was nearly as pale as Meg and she noted that he still had tears running over his cheeks. She doubted he had stopped crying ceased since Madame had finished dressing him down for his ignorance of Meg's pitiable degradations.

Christine wondered if Erik was really so indifferent as Madame thought him to be. She had never seen him so desperate before. There had been a look of such despair in his eyes when he had heard Meg sing that tragic song of death and love... No, Christine was not blind. Despite how he clung to the memory of her much as she had to him, Erik obviously cared a great deal for Meg. She doubted wild horses could get him to confess it, but he would not have behaved as he did if he didn't love her, at least a little bit. She might not know him as well as they both wished, but she knew him enough to interpret his behavior. Erik did not become attached to people easily, but when he did, his affection was deep and abiding and permanent. And Christine knew Meg, too. The years might have hardened her, but over the past few days she had been able to see that beneath that painted face lay the same sweet friend she had known so many years ago at the opera. No one could fail to love Meg, and she doubted Erik was the exception.

Christine just prayed that her Angel would have a chance to see that as clearly as she did.

* * *

Erik found he could not stop weeping, though he went about it silently. He had spent most of his life cursing God's name, but now he tried to remember the prayers Meg had attempted to teach him all those years ago. He gave up quickly trying to remember the words and simply sent a great rush from within his soul to anyone who might listen, for her sake. No higher power could possibly see fit to punish Meg for his sins.

At the same time, though, he found himself questioning everything he'd ever known about the little ballerina... beginning with that. She wasn't a ballerina anymore, was she? No, but then, that was his fault. She had never hated him for it, Madeleine said, but he wasn't sure he could believe that. It seemed impossible that anyone could do anything but hate the monster who had destroyed their life, not even someone as compassionate as Meg.

That she could deliberately try to take her own life was a source of consternation to him. He could not decide if that made her strong or weak. He knew better than most that life was hard. Living was the most difficult task. Death would be easy, he imagined. Suicide was said to be the coward's way out. More than once he had pondered the final act himself over these long years, and he was certainly a coward. But he had always stopped short of the mark, where Meg had forged past it and done the deed. Did that make her braver than he or less? He couldn't even begin to unknot it. Perhaps she could explain it better. She'd always had a way of untangling apparently impossible situations with ease.

Situations, he thought bitterly, like the one he had managed to get himself into six years ago. She had rescued him from Anderson's stranglehold, and he'd never known. Madeleine's words simultaneously touched him and chilled him to the core, and the image of Meg weeping for his sake was forever burned in his imagination. That she had sacrificed herself for him was utterly confounding; in all his life, no one had ever put him first. Even Christine had always held other interests higher than his. Meg had tossed aside her very dignity with little thought because she felt compelled to protect him_. _Such loyalty was impossible for him to comprehend, and brought a fresh flood of tears to his eyes.

When the doctor entered softly, Erik nearly jumped out of his skin. Over the past ten years he had gotten... well, he wouldn't say he was _good_ at living his life among other people, but he was better at it. He still found himself getting twitchy when confronted with strangers, however. He wiped away the moisture on his cheeks so surreptitiously he doubted the chubby little man had even noticed him move, then rose to his feet to hover over the man's shoulder as he checked Meg's pulse and began a thorough investigation of her person that Erik resented. If what Madeleine said was true- and he didn't doubt her words because no matter their rocky relations over the years, she had always been honest with him- Meg had been handled by enough strange men for a hundred lifetimes. She didn't need some half-baked surgeon prodding at her! If he hadn't been so deeply concerned for the little blonde's welfare, he would have marched the man straight back out again. As it was, he stood to the side and allowed the doctor to complete his work.

The portly physician looked up at last. "Well," he said, polishing his spectacles on his threadbare vest, "I can't say anything definitively, but it seems at this juncture that the transfusion has been successful. Her heartbeat is regular and Miss Giry is a healthy girl. I imagine she'll recover."

"Then why isn't she awake?" Erik snapped. The sight of her, wan and still against the dark cushions, made him more irritable than he could remember being in rather a long time.

"Shock, I imagine," the doctor said. "Losing that much blood will have taken a heavy toll on her. I recommend that you keep her as warm as possible and see if you can get her to drink something. The fact that she's survived this long is promising, and I imagine she'll wake on her own in a few hours. And if you don't mind, Mister, uh... Mister Y..." He stumbled for a moment over Erik's chosen moniker, but recovered himself quickly. "-I think I'll take my leave of you. There's nothing else I can do for her for the time being. Keep her bandages fresh and the cuts clean to prevent infection, and if I were you, I would very strongly consider getting some help for the young lady. In my experience, women who take such- ah, _drastic_ measures tend more often to be crying out for help, rather than seriously attempting to-"

"Get out," Erik growled.

"I just wish to caution you that-" the man protested, but Erik was having none of it.

"Get out!" he half-shouted, grabbing the man painfully by the shoulder and propelling him rather forcefully to the door. "We'll make our own decisions regarding Miss Giry's well-being!" He pushed the doctor out the door and shut it tightly behind him. "What, does he expect us to have her committed?" he ranted. "The nerve... as if he had any idea..."

"The same might be said of you," Madeleine muttered bitterly.

Erik pretended he hadn't heard, and stalked back to Meg's bedside. For a long moment, he looked down at her, watching the blessed rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. _She would live._ That fact blotted out all other thoughts for several long moments as a heavy weight fell from his chest. His need to possess Christine had not destroyed yet another life.

A loud bang of the door rebounding off the wall interrupted his contemplation and announced the entrance of the Vicomte de Chagny. "Christine!" he exclaimed. "They said someone had been hurt!" Erik looked up sharply, wondering why the Vicomte dared show his face now.

Christine rose without hesitation and flew to her husband's arms. "Meg's had an accident," she said as she clung to him. Erik noted, from his place by Meg's side, that the Vicomte's eyes darted to the bandages at the young woman's wrists. He must have guessed that Christine was only being delicate when she said 'accident.' He was grateful the younger man had the grace not to comment on it. Meg did not deserve judgment. At the same time he mentally applauded Raoul's courtesy, he couldn't help but feel a surge of anger and jealousy as he watched Christine embrace the other man fiercely. The feeling was tempered somewhat when he noted the tender look on Raoul's face as he hesitantly put his arms around his wife in return. For all the Vicomte's failings, it was obvious that he adored Christine even as much as Erik himself did.

Christine at last released her husband. "Where on earth have you been?" she asked.

Raoul suddenly looked uncomfortable, and looked at Erik as if fearing retribution. "I mean to honor the terms of our agreement," he said. "But as I was making my way off the isle, I heard someone say..." He paused to compose himself briefly, and Erik realized how worried the younger man had been. "I overheard a conversation. Someone said that a chanteuse had been injured after her performance and I thought..."

He had thought Christine was hurt. Erik could understand why Raoul had returned in direct violation of their bargain. If he himself had thought any harm had come to Christine, there was nothing in heaven or hell that could take him from her side.

Meanwhile, though, Christine herself looked pensive. "Leaving Coney Island? Without me?" she asked. Then her eyes narrowed and she stared suspiciously between the two men. "What agreement? What have you done?"

A sudden flaw in his ever-so-brilliant plan presented itself very suddenly. "We... we made a bet," Erik said, feeling unexpectedly flustered and looking to Raoul for help in explaining their mutual madness.

"A bet?" Christine stated more than asked.

"On the concert," Raoul said, looking fiercely ashamed of himself. Erik was grateful that the nobleman seemed to have taken it upon himself to do the explaining, because he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to manage such an explanation without elaborating on the truth a bit to make himself look better. Raoul, at least, would give the honest version... he hoped.

"You were the stakes," Raoul continued. "If you would walk out, he would pay off our- no, _my-_ debts and we would be free to go. But if you insisted... if you sang..." He shrugged helplessly.

Christine's face drained of blood and for a few moments it looked as though she might faint. Then she straightened her slight shoulders and looked between them coldly. "You... you would make a bet on my life? Have I no say in this at all?" Both men felt deep stirs of regret within them as they saw she was suddenly on the verge of tears. "Things were different last time; I was sixteen and I was scared. You can't just... Dear God, you can't just tell me what I want!" Her voice quavered. "I... I can't look at either of you right now!" she exclaimed. She turned and rushed from the room.

Raoul and Erik glanced at each other, nearly identical sheepish expressions on their faces. Raoul made as though to go after her, but Erik held up a hand. "Let her go. She'll come back when she's ready."

The Vicomte's formerly commiserating look turned to a glare. "I think I know how to handle my own wife!" he exclaimed, and followed Christine out the door.

Erik rolled his eyes. Let them argue. He'd be there waiting in the wings in the aftermath. Then his glance fell on Madeleine, who was staring at her with a thoroughly disgusted look on her face.

"You have no shame, have you?" she growled.

He chose again not to respond to her goading. She was angry. She had a right to be. He hoped in time she might be able to forgive him. For now, though, he joined her by Meg's side and took his blonde star's slim hand in his own. He marveled briefly at how tiny her hands were compared to his own large hands; her small hand almost disappeared inside his. He looked at her face and suddenly he hardly recognized her. The Meg he had first met, that night beneath the opera... she had been so innocent. He couldn't picture that girl he had first known wearing the vivid mauve shade that now decorated her lips, or singing the formulaic songs he had churned out by rote for the last few years. Those songs... well, they weren't his style or hers. He supposed he should have given her some better material. Just as Madeleine had said, she deserved better than that. There had been a melody for her going around and around in his head for months, but he'd been hesitant to commit it to paper. He had betrayed his own art as much as he'd betrayed her.

Well, no more. He vowed again that he would do right by Meg.


	5. Fight or Flight

**A/N-** Okay, so I know we're 4.5 chapters into this thing and maybe three or four hours have gone by, at the absolute max. Trust me, the pace of this, in terms of time passing, _will_ pick up. Cross my heart. However, as this first night is the turning point, I feel it really necessary to devote a lot of time to what happens in the immediate aftermath of Meg's suicide attempt. What happens right here affects the outcomes of everyone's lives, and I want to do it justice. Once we get into Ch 6, I think we'll be moving on a little more quickly.

Also, Fleck is _hard_ to write. She has less character development than Meg got in POTO! At least the few snatches we saw of Meg left us in no doubt as to what her primary character traits were (and then of course ALW had to go and totally rewrite those... idiot...). Fleck is just kind of a mystery.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Fight or Flight**

By the time Raoul stepped into the corridor, Christine was gone. He hazarded a guess that she would go back downstairs, and hurried in that direction, his head full of jumbled thoughts. Christine's tearful words had shamed him to the core- which he supposed he deserved- but at the same time, had given him hope. It seemed she would not be content to follow along with the outcome of the bet between that monster and himself, and by the things she'd said, she was distressed at the thought of him leaving without her. For the first time in years, he felt a spark of hope that perhaps his wife still loved him after all.

Raoul arrived at the door of the dressing room that had been allotted for Christine's use, only to discover that bird woman- Flirt or Flack or something, he really couldn't recall- leaning against the door-post. Her posture was casual, her left arm slung across her chest and the other elbow perched at her hip. Her thick black hair had been let down from the chignon she'd worn for the performance, and it concealed a large portion of her face. A lit cigarette dangled casually from the scarlet-painted fingertips on her right hand, and one slim leg peeked tantalizingly through a slit in her feathery stage costume.

"Pardon me," he said awkwardly. "I'm looking for my wife. Is she-?" He gestured to the door.

"She is," she confirmed in a flutey drawl. "But she told me not to let anybody in. As if I had nothing better to do than sit around and watch her door all day." This last was said in a low murmur that he was fairly sure wasn't intended for his ears.

"I'm her husband!" he protested.

"That you are, but apparently you ain't getting through this door," she said.

"Miss, uh..." Fleck! That was her name! "Miss Fleck, please. I need to speak to her."

"I bet you do," she muttered, looking away from him to gaze disinterestedly at the opposite wall.

For several moments they both remained silent. Then Fleck straightened somewhat and looked up at him, her strange green eyes suddenly very earnest. "How's Miss Giry?" she asked softly.

Raoul's heart sank at the thought of Christine's childhood friend. He hadn't really thought to ask, and guilt for that swept through him. In his defense, he _had_ been distracted, but Meg had been his staunchest ally all those years ago when the Phantom had first tried to lay a claim on Christine, and forgetting her once he was sure Christine was safe now seemed unforgivable.

"She... I don't know," he said honestly. "The Phan- _Mister Y_ looked very grim."

"He always looks grim," Fleck pointed out bluntly. Then she sighed, looking past him again with a faraway cast to her eyes. "She's a sweet kid. Everybody around here adores her, even the freaks. Maybe 'specially us freaks. She treats us like we're _normal_. Even the Master doesn't do that, an' he's one of us! It doesn't matter what nonsense she's doin' on-stage; that girl's the sweetest, kindest person I ever knew. I can't believe she'd... but then, the Master's been a right blind idiot about her." Fleck let out a bitter bark of laughter. "Not that that's anything new."

Curiosity swept over Raoul. As much as he wanted to speak with Christine, he realized that in one regard, the Phantom was right. This conversation would go better if he gave her just a few minutes to compose herself. And the opportunity to get a glimpse into the life of his rival was tantalizingly close. "What's he like?" he asked.

Fleck tossed a raven lock out of her eyes. "I'd 'ave thought you'd know," she said, "Seeing as your wife's so tight with him an' all."

"Yes, well, our dealings in the past have been limited to the circumspect and unpleasant," Raoul said bluntly, annoyed by her observation about Christine.

She snorted. "Typical. The Master doesn't have old friends, does he? Just enemies. Seems to me, Meg's 'bout the only person who seems to really care for him most days."

"Oh?" Raoul prompted.

She took a long drag on the cigarette. "Yeah. I mean, don' get me wrong. I'm grateful for everything he's done for my Pap and me these last few years. He gave us a home, and we're not the only ones. He's been so good to all us. But he can be mighty creepy when he wants to. He'll give you a _look_ with those eyes of his..." She shook her head and clicked her tongue nervously. "Meg was always different, though."

"How is she different?" he asked.

Fleck shrugged. "Oh, just little things. You know. And she's the only one with the guts to try an' manage him when he's in one of his rages."

"I'll bet," Raoul muttered under his breath.

"Y'know, 'til you an' your wife showed up, I thought for sure she an' him had some kinda something. She sure adores him, god only knows why. I mean, I guess he is somethin' of a looker, so long as he keeps that mask on, but of all the fellas 'round here, he's sure not the one I'd pick."

Fleck seemed lost in reminiscence, looking past him as if her look were turned internally. Suddenly, she straightened up. She trained those striking eyes intently on him, fixing him firmly in her gaze. "Aw, what the hell am I tellin' you all this for? You don't care much. Go see to your wife, I don't give a damn." She jerked her head impatiently at the door between them, then turned and walked off in a flurry of costume feathers.

Raoul stared after her. She was a most abrupt and unnerving woman he decided, and despite its brevity, their strange conversation had done nothing but reaffirm his desire to leave this country as quickly as possible and return to France, where at least people were civilized!

* * *

Christine was not accustomed to packing away her own things, had not done so since her early days in the opera house (and even then she'd had Meg to help... oh poor, dear Meg...), but she managed well enough to fill a pair of valises, suitable for a daytrip though not much more. "Mother, what are you doing?" Gustave had asked repeatedly, but it had taken her twenty minutes of packing before she felt calm enough to answer without breaking out into tears. At last she turned to her son, kneeling in front of him in a pool of satin.

"You remember how I said we'd spend some time together, just the two of us?" she told him. He nodded, his little face solemn. "Well, you and I are going away for a little while."

"Isn't Father coming?"

"Not this time, Gustave."

At that moment, the man himself stepped into the room, announcing himself with a little rap on the doorframe. Christine rose to her feet to face him. "Raoul," she said, feeling a little breathless.

"Christine! Christine, I am so sorry, sorry for everything, I just... I..."

He seemed as much at a loss for words as she was. He was still in his fine suit, clean-shaven and as handsome as the first time she'd seen him at the opera. For all that they had been married ten years, the sight of him still made her feel giddy and sixteen. She hated this. She hated that two men owned her heart in such equal portions. It could only end in disaster for everybody, might already have spelled disaster for poor Meg. This inability to make up her mind was dangerous, she knew now, and she would not cause any more pain if she could help it. That was why she was doing this.

"I know," she said placatingly. "I know you are. But I can't see you right now. I can't see you, or him either." She turned to Gustave, who was watching intently. "Will you wait outside for a moment, Gustave? I need to speak to your father. We'll only be a few minutes."

The boy looked at her intently for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. He was a bright boy, and she suspected he guessed a lot more than he let on. But he turned and went outside nonetheless, closing the door behind him.

Raoul ran a hand through his fair hair, sighing heavily. "Am I his father, Christine?" he asked, not accusingly but as though he were just very, very tired. "Am I really?"

Christine twisted her gloved hands together, wanting more than anything in that moment that she could avoid this conversation. "I was never sure," she confessed. Raoul's face, already looking ten years older than he really was, sagged further with despair. "He has that fair hair... but I suppose he could have gotten that from my mother, and he's so musical... I just was never sure. Seeing the pair of them together has made me think that he must be... But Raoul, I need you to understand, even if you are not Gustave's father, you are still his papa. You were the one who held him on the day he was born. You were the one who listened to him practice when he first took up the piano. Even if you did not father him, he is your son in so many ways." She broke off as tears poured from her eyes to think of the mess they had made.

"I always knew, I think," Raoul said sadly. "I always-"

"No, Raoul, please!" Christine blurted out. "Please, not now. I... I cannot think about this now. I'm too angry and upset and confused right now. Gustave and I are going away for a few days. We'll take a train down the coast and spend some time by the sea, so that I can clear my head and think about this rationally. I'm angry with you and I'm angry with him and though I love you both, I don't particularly _like_ either of you right now and I just... I cannot handle this."

He looked at her sadly, those bright blue eyes of his, eyes so like Meg's, as sad as she had once thought Erik's to be. _In his eyes, all the sadness of the world._ It was almost enough to make her forgive him. She had always been willing to forgive Raoul anything. But she had been just glossing over their problems for too long now. She couldn't fall into that trap this time.

"I'll be back," she promised, "But right now I need to think. Please tell me you understand?"

"I... Christine..." He sighed and shook his head. "Hurry back."

She smiled as much as she was able to and touched his hand softly.

Then she picked up her bags and walked to the door, opening it to reveal Gustave standing on the other side, his hazel eyes blank as he looked up at her. "Are we going now, Mother?" he asked.

She nodded. "I arranged to have a carriage take us to the train station," she told him. "Say goodbye to your father, Gustave."

The boy hesitated, then ran to Raoul and threw his arms around his waist. For a moment, Christine thought her husband would not accept the boy's embrace, but after the tiniest hesitation, Raoul wrapped his arms around Gustave and ruffled his hair, affection clear in every line of his face. The sight was a dagger to her heart, as she felt more strongly than ever that somewhere along the line, she wasn't quite sure where, she had made some terrible mistake.

After a long moment, Raoul and Gustave broke apart and the boy ran to his mother's side. The pair of them swept down the corridor, leaving the Vicomte de Chagny standing alone in the dressing room.

* * *

**A/N2-** Guess who loves R/C? I do, I do, I do! *waves hand excitedly* This chapter got up much later than I hoped and much sooner than I expected, so maybe if you review, I'll be able to work up another chapter before the end of the semester...


	6. Ghosts of the Past

**A/N-** Alright, I had considered using this first scene as a tag to the last chapter, but I decided there was no need to get melodramatic... LND does that just fine all on its own, thank you very much! Besides, if it's not tacked onto a chapter with another focus, I can go into more detail, which is important here.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Ghosts of the Past**

Hours passed, and still Meg slept. After a time she began to shake with chills, and Erik ensured that she was covered with blankets to keep her warm. Shock, just as the doctor had said, he supposed. But slowly and steadily, the color returned to her face. She no longer resembled a living corpse and seemed merely asleep.

Erik still sat by her side late into the night, turning away all those who came to bother him about the suddenly insignificant details of Phantasma's management. He sent them to Fleck and Gangle; the pair of them would handle closing procedures adequately. Madame stayed, too, but sometime after midnight she left her daughter's side and went to the armchair across the room where she began to doze. Erik remained sitting on the floor just beside her. He couldn't bring himself to leave Meg even for a second. As the night wore on, he found his mind drifting back to the very first time he had seen her face-to-face...

_"Track down this murderer! He must be found!" The mob's cries echoed through the caverns, but he could hardly hear them over the wretched pounding of his own breaking heart. He was curled in the small room that lay at the far end of his bolt-hole, arms wrapped around himself with tears pouring over his ruined face. It felt as if his body were on fire, every fibre of him rejecting Christine's abandonment, and his heart felt cold and squeezed in a vice. He wondered blearily if he was dying. He hoped he was._

_He didn't hear the soft footsteps, though there must have been some. Her thick-soled boots were not as silent as the soft shoes she ordinarily wore, and she was not accustomed to their weight. There had to have been footsteps, but he was blind and deaf to the world in that fatal hour._

_But he knew she was there when he felt her hands touch him. Such cool, soft hands... he thought it was Christine, come back to him. He called out her name, but it was a different voice who answered._

_"No, Monsieur. It's Meg- Marguerite Giry."_

_He buried himself tighter into his cocoon of his own arms and legs, hiding from her, hiding from everything that was not Christine, but she was not having that. She tugged him around so that he was lying on his back. He heard a gasp as his face was revealed, just one last stab in his broken heart. His face repulsed her. Now she would leave and he would be free at last to die. _

_Except she didn't._

_"Oh Monsieur, you're burning up!" she said in a worried voice. "And soaked to the bone! How long have you been lying here...? You'll catch your death!"_

_He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her image was hazy, his vision blurred either from tears or fever he wasn't sure, but he could make her out. Yes. Yes, he knew her. Madeleine's daughter, yes. Long blonde hair with soft curls and those wide blue eyes like the sky itself set in a perfect heart-shaped face. In that moment, he hated how beautiful she was, because it was a reminder of what he had almost had, what he had given up for Christine's sake..._

_"She's gone," he lamented, mostly to himself but maybe to her as well. He wanted someone, at least, to know. "I let her go. She wanted to go. I don't understand, I thought she... I thought she l-loved me, I thought..." He could not continue, as sobs choked him and every muscle in his body spasmed painfully in response._

_"Ssshhh," she said, those cool hands finding his brow once more, not differentiating between the perfect left and the repulsive right. "Hush now, it will be alright. I promise. I'll make it alright, somehow."_

And she had, hadn't she, as much "alright" as his life would ever be?

He hated that he had repaid her unfathomable kindness with such coldness, but that was simply his way. He did not know how to be around people. In truth, he did not even know how to be around Christine. He was very bad at it. But he could have, _should_ have made more effort with Meg. Looking back now, he thought of all the times she had been there to pick up the pieces when he could not control his own violent temper or when he had sunk into blackest despair once more over the loss of Christine. She had been there constantly at his side, even more than her mother, over the past ten and a half years, and now with Madeleine's revelation he knew that she had done even more for him that he could ever have guessed. He hadn't really thought about it. After that night before they stole away to Calais, when Christine had found him, he had been so wrapped up in his own conflicted emotions and eventually in determination to have her by his side once more that Meg had just been a presence. He hadn't thought much about her. He had simply gotten used to her. When they were together, she had done most of the talking. She always was a chatterbox...

"Oh Meg," he whispered sadly for what must have been the hundredth time that night.

An impulse struck him. He hesitated for several moments, but found he could not resist the urge. Slowly, he leaned over her still form and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. The conflicting emotions that had been swirling within him from the first moment he had seen her lying there in a pool of her own blood settled and compressed, panic at last fading away. He was left with a dull ache in his chest, as if his very heart were bruised.

As his lips brushed her skin, she stirred. A soft moan rose in her throat as she turned her head to the side. He jerked away, leaping to his feet and backing away from her. She continued to move restlessly, fighting her way slowly back to consciousness.

Oh god. He couldn't do this now. He couldn't face her now, like this! She had seen him weep too many times already. No more. He whirled and shook Madeleine's shoulder. The older woman came awake with a start.

"She's waking," he told her tersely. Immediately she flew to her daughter's side, and while she was occupied with Meg, he stole out of the room like a shadow.

* * *

The first thing she was aware of was a raw, sore feeling that seemed to run the entire length of her body. It wasn't excruciatingly painful, but enough to make her aware of every place her body was in contact with another surface. The insides of her wrists, however, felt as if they were on fire. She let out a low groan, twisting away from the pain, but it was inside her own body and she could not escape it. She had thought the pain would go away... it wasn't supposed to follow her here! That was the point, it wasn't supposed to hurt anymore!

She opened her eyes to see her mother's worried hazel eyes and suddenly she understood. She hadn't escaped. She was still _here_.

"Oh my little Meg," her mother choked out. "Oh my dear, you scared me so!"

She struggled to sit up, and suddenly found herself wrapped in the tightest hug she had ever received, her mother clinging to her desperately. Meg's internal dam burst, and tears flooded her eyes. "Oh Maman," she wailed, melting into her mother's embrace.

It was the first time in years that her mother had held her like this. Even when Meg was a child, she had never been terribly affectionate. This show of warmth now brought her last reserves of composure crashing down. Mother and daughter clung together, the former whispering words of comfort, unheeded and unheard, to the latter.

* * *

Erik paced his study restlessly. He could count on one hand the number of things he had felt guilt for over the course of his lifetime. The angry row he had had with Madeleine the night she told him she was leaving to get married, the fight that had forever ended any claim they might have had to being true friends. Destroying the Opera Populaire in his insanity. Leaving Christine that night.

Now Meg's fragile fate was added to that pile. He had taken her so much for granted for the last decade, had assumed she would simply always be there. How on earth had _that_ happened? He never took _anything_ for granted, and people least of all! He didn't take Madeleine for granted. She had abandoned him too many times in the past for him not to try and keep her close, but Meg had somehow been different. What on earth had happened to him to make him so presumptuous? Memories assaulted him of those first days in which they had known each other as he searched for an explanation...

_Uneasily he crept back into consciousness. His whole body ached and his head was split with fire. What had happened to make him feel so wretched? He couldn't recall..._

_Upon opening his eyes, he was stunned to see the fey eyes of Madeleine's little daughter watching him. He could not fathom how she had found her way to him or why. "Oh thank goodness!" she exclaimed when she saw him awake. "I was beginning to think you'd never recover!"_

_"What...?"_

_Her face settled into a sympathetic grimace. "You've had a fever. You were delirious for nearly two days and unconscious for another! That's what you get for being soaked through to the skin in these rotten tunnels, I suppose, but I'm really no nurse and I was so afraid I'd as likely kill you as heal you! Thank the lord you have a decent store of supplies back here or I think we'd both have starved before you came round." _

_Before he knew how to react her hand had found his forehead, her soft, cool palm soothing away the pounding behind his eyes. He jerked away immediately, rejecting her touch as was deeply-ingrained habit, and they froze as they were for a moment, a silent tableau that might have been a battle of wills or something else entirely. Then slowly, she returned her hand to its former place against his skin and this time he let her. _

_He was grateful for the profound dark, both because he felt that any light at all would have split his head wide open and because he could feel the air on the right half of his face and knew he was unmasked. Even if her eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now, she would never see him as clearly as he did her. From the pitch of the sound of dripping water, he guessed that they were in the little cavern to the back of the passageway behind the mirror and wondered how on earth she had found _that_._

_"The fever seems to have faded, at least," she said softly. "How do you feel?"_

_Despite his damp living situations he had always been healthy and on the rare occasions he had felt poorly, he had recovered swiftly and now her prodding and questioning irritated him. He was fine, or would be in an hour or-_

_And then, very abruptly, it all came back. Christine, the Vicomte and _Don Juan Triumphant_. His face, exposed, before a screaming crowd of hundreds and falling with Christine in his arms... Christine's lips against his own and the ring that now resided in his pocket... A sickening mixture of hatred and heartbreak and rage and soul-crushing abandonment crashed over him and he needed to get out out out or he would hurt her and he didn't _want_ to because he had promised Christine, hadn't he? He'd promised her he wouldn't hurt any more people and she'd sealed that promise with her kiss and he wouldn't hurt Little Giry who was Christine's friend but if he didn't go now he would and he needed OUT!_

_He wrenched himself to his feet so suddenly that his head spun and she was knocked to the floor. Vaguely he noticed that his boots and cummerbund were missing but he didn't care. He made for the door as swiftly as his abrupt dizziness would allow, not sure where he was going and desperate to be Not Here, but a sudden cry stopped him._

_"Wait!" Little Giry exclaimed. "Please... please don't leave me here?"_

_Her plaintive call was so reminiscent of how he had once pleaded, pleaded with Madeleine not to leave him alone in the dark cellars of the strange building she had brought him to, and he could not help but pause, facing away from her but listening nonetheless. He knew that tone of voice_

_"Please don't leave me alone... this place frightens me."_

_"And my staying will help that how?" he asked, quiet and sardonic. "I should think getting as far away from le Fantôme should decrease your terror immensely." He hoped she would take the hint and leave him to his agony._

_She let out a soft sigh. "I should be afraid of you," she said in a tiny voice. "God help me, I know I should with everything that's happened, but... I can't be. I don't understand why, but I'm not. Please don't leave me here in the dark alone. All your candles had burned out by the second day and I don't know how to find my way alone."_

And he hadn't left her, had he? He had stayed then (which in retrospect had been smart because for all that he had meant to flee, his physical state had been rather further degraded than he had initially thought and he later suspected he wouldn't have gotten very far before his knees would have refused to support him), and he had been forced to quell his grief over Christine, putting it safely to the back of his mind to be dealt with when he was free to fall apart.

Perhaps the trouble was that there never had been an opportunity to deal with that? Since the moment he had awakened to Meg Giry fussing over him, he had scarcely had a moment in which he was genuinely alone, and then Christine had come to him and the nature of his regret had taken on an entirely different cast.

This whole thing was such a mess. He had finally become a part of the world, as much as he could ever hope to be anyway. He was still a stranger, still someone not wholly trusted, but though people knew of his existence they didn't shun him anymore, as such. The press and politicians respected him and the public that poured through the gates of Phantasma each day during the season had enjoyed his little show of smoke and mirrors that comprised it, and art world would once again receive worthy contributions now that Christine was returned to him. He had taken some sort of place in the world, no longer a Phantom.

But at what cost?

He was not used to feeling so unsettled for anyone but Christine. If it had been because of anyone besides Meg to whom he owed so much, he would probably have been angry about it. As it was, he only felt sadness. If what Madeleine said was true, and Meg did have these feelings for him, how on earth could he deal with that without setting her off again?

Slowly, a plan began to form in his mind. He could not give her false hope, he knew that. He loved Christine, and she had to know that. But he had to show her that he did appreciate all she'd done. Perhaps next season he would go to see her perform. Yes, he could do that. And he supposed it couldn't hurt to spend a bit of time with her and Madeleine beyond what business mandated, either. It would be difficult to strike the balance between leading her on and doing the right thing by her, but he was sure he could do it. If he could charm Christine into loving him against all reason, he could make reparation for what he'd unwittingly done to Meg.

* * *

**A/N2-** Okay, enough of the whinging. We'll move along at a faster clip now, promise.


	7. Disconsolation

**A/N-** Now, let's jump to approximately 36 hours later... I was getting tired of that night, weren't you? The first scene here takes place the afternoon immediately following Meg's attempt, while the subsequent scenes are set then the next morning after that. Oh, and just a heads-up: in the third scene of this chapter, the POV jumps around quite a lot, and I wasn't really able to separate it with page breaks because it happened too often, but I couldn't change the POV to a more regular dynamic or take the scene through just one set of eyes without destroying the entire tone of the narrative for that portion, so you'll have to forgive me and just keep up with whose eyes we're seeing through. Thanks for your patience with my insanity!

* * *

**Chapter 6: Disconsolation**

Erik was very tempted to break something. He had been informed by Squelch that Christine was gone. She had left the night before without a word of goodbye and taken their son with her!

At first, he had made the assumption that the Vicomte had something to do with it. While he knew (unfortunately) that the younger man was an honorable man, when it came to Christine he did not trust anybody, and the handsome nobleman least of all. But it became apparent, when he received a note from the Vicomte requesting to remain in the lodgings they had been given at least until Christine returned.

Erik had not replied immediately. Instead, he had spied on the Raoul. Every inch of Phantasma had been built to his own specifications, and he had his ways of getting about unobserved. If he had found Raoul in anything even remotely approaching high spirits, he would have been suspicious and refused his request on principle. The Vicomte, however, was at least as disconsolate-looking as he himself felt. Clearly he had received no assurances from Christine either. And so, bitterly, he permitted his rival to stay.

That done, Erik had been tempted to go after Christine. She was a recognizable figure, her fame preceding her across the Atlantic, and he was certain that if he were to go about it the right way, someone at Grand Central could be coerced into remembering where exactly she had gone. He could have been at her side before the day was out.

At the same time, though, he was loathe to leave Meg. She had been confined to her quarters by her own choice or design for the better part of the day, locked away with only her mother for company, and showed no signs of coming out anytime soon. Nevertheless, he felt unfortunately bound to stay nearby. The thought of her in pain was deeply unpleasant to him, and as much as his heart was screaming at him to chase Christine as far as she could run, something else, something he couldn't quite define, was pulling him in the opposite direction, keeping him right here where Meg resided.

After all... he had always waited for _Christine_ to come to _him _in the past, hadn't he?

* * *

It took nearly a day before Meg was really back on her feet again, but in the morning two days after she had attempted to take her life, she had recovered her strength enough to walk about the now-deserted grounds of Phantasma. Well, nearly deserted, she supposed forlornly. Though the summer crowds had departed, most of the staff were still present, closing down the various attractions in preparation for the cold months of winter ahead. And of course the freaks and performers were still in residence. Most of them would take up other jobs in the city during the off-season, but certain among them who were unlikely to find as safe a haven as this elsewhere had taken permanent lodgings within Phantasma's gates, among them Ariella Fleck and her father.

Conspicuously absent, however, was the great Christine de Chagny, née Daae. Meg had not spoken to anyone save for her mother since she had awoken, but years of being the least-trusted and best-informed girl in the ballet dormitories had made her an eavesdropper of such skill she suspected even Erik would be impressed. She had heard rumors among the employees that the diva had taken her son and gotten in a carriage bound for Grand Central Terminal. No one knew where she was bound, only that she had taken a train away, leaving her husband behind. The Vicomte, it seemed, was to continue lodging on Coney until his wife's return.

Meg felt numb. The agony of realizing that she had sold her very soul for a man who would never love her was still there, but muted, like a warm iron felt through many layers of cloth. Mostly, she just felt empty. That was worse, she thought, because at least pain had to fade eventually. This emptiness, this gap that could never be filled except by Erik, was so much more bitter a sentence.

Her mother had demanded to accompany her on this solitary stroll about the grounds, but Meg had declined firmly. The entirety of yesterday had been more than enough consecutive time spent in Madeleine Giry's company. She loved her mother, and she knew that her concern was both well-founded and well-meant, but she had been accustomed to being left largely to her own devices at quite a young age. For all that she was grateful for the well-intentioned (if somewhat empty) words of consolation, she felt smothered with her _maman_ constantly around, fussing over her. It was the way she looked at her, as if Meg were some shying wounded animal that might lash out and hurt herself or someone else if touched the wrong way. Meg wasn't entirely sure that assessment was wrong, which was why she had felt such a pressing need for solitude now.

Part of her looked at the healing wounds on her wrists and could hardly believe she had done such a thing. The Meg she had been would never have done such a thing. But the rest of her- that tiniest scrap somewhere deep down in her where Meg Giry still resided, barely there beneath her painted-on colors and her revealing costumes- wasn't really surprised. The Ooh La La Girl had consumed her, or perhaps Erik had, or perhaps it was both. Either way, the person she had thought she'd be was gone and the reward she'd hoped to reap for giving up herself hadn't come to fill the void.

That was the worst of it, too, this knowledge she carried with her of just how pathetic she really was. Meg knew beyond any doubt that if Erik had cared even a little, if he had given her anything at all, she wouldn't have minded committing Meg Giry to the dark behind her painted mask. If he had returned even a scrap of her affections, it would have been worth it. This more than anything else tore at her soul, because she knew it was sickeningly wrong to be so utterly committed in every way to a man who, rationally, had never done anything to earn it.

But she just couldn't help herself.

* * *

Erik had thought that the day in which Meg spent closeted with her mother after her accident (that was how he found he had to refer to it in his head... it was too easy for the thought to unbalance him otherwise, and in recent years he had taken great pains to maintain his equilibrium as much as possible) had been sufficient for him to clear his mind and view the situation and Meg's mental state rationally. Obviously, he had been violently wrong.

To be fair, he had never expected to run smack into her on a mid-morning walk through the near-deserted grounds of Phantasma. Indeed, he had not expected to see her out of bed- let alone out unaccompanied- for several days at least, considering how pale and fragile she had been when last he'd seen her. Now, though, except for the bandages at her wrists and her frighteningly lifeless eyes- so much more unnerving because he knew how those eyes could dance when she was animated- it might have been any other day for her. Her blonde hair was unbound and fell in soft curls around her shoulders, and she wore a modest summer dress in a deep shade of aubergine. The shock of encountering her so unexpectedly drove clear thinking from his head.

"M-Meg," he stuttered awkwardly.

She flushed a dull red and avoided his gaze. "Good morning," she replied, voice deceptively even.

A brief, awkward silence passed, and he fished around for something to say. "I hadn't expected to see you out today."

Meg felt a flare of irritation. Good god, Erik could be the most brutally direct individual of the face of the earth, but_ now_ he chose to creep around the edges of a subject? It was frustrating to no end. It pleased her, that little stab of annoyance, because it was the first thing she'd felt since shortly after she had awakened that registered as anything like a real, honest emotion. She was just bitter that it had to come from _him_.

"Well, to be perfectly frank, Erik, I hadn't really expected to be out either," she said bluntly.

She knew he would take her meaning, that she hadn't particularly intended to go anywhere ever again. He was skilled at reading people, and she was not being subtle. She also meant it quite sincerely. Her actions of two evenings before had been desperate, but deliberate. She had wanted to die. She wasn't sure she still did so, but neither was she sure she didn't.

Her words were intended to test him, he could tell. She was trying to provoke a reaction in him. It was that intention, rather than the actual words themselves, which did indeed illicit a response. Erik did not like being tested.

"You behaved foolishly. I expected more maturity from you," he said coldly. It was as restrained as he was capable of being under present conditions.

Meg narrowed her eyes. "Maturity? You, who have never proved yourself to be anything but irrational and more than a little petty, expect maturity from _me_? What would you even know of the situation, anyway?"

"For your information, your mother revealed rather a lot while you were fainting away on the sofa," he spat out harshly. "Certain details regarding our funding that you neglected to share with me, Little Meg?"

She felt her face pale and her breathing go shallow. She and her mother had spoken at length over the course of the previous day, but not once had Maman bothered to mention that Erik _knew_. That had been her one stipulation over the whole course of the years during which she had... had sold herself. Erik was never to find out. It had been her sacrifice, made gladly at the time, but never to be made known to the man for whom it was made. Shame welled up in her, shame for what she had become, just a dirty street whore in comparison to his _great love,_ Christine...

"You weren't ever supposed to know. It's not something you would understand, anyway!" she hissed out, hiding behind her long hair so that he couldn't see her shame.

He felt remorseful now, seeing her retreating into her shell. This morning Madeleine had told him (after rather a lot of prodding on his part) that Meg had seemed bizarrely calm, almost numb the day before. Although he felt rather guilty for rising to her provocation, he had been glad to see he was earning a reaction from her. But she seemed to be fading away again. He softened his tone to try and coax her back out again.

"Oh? And why would I, of all people, not understand feeling debased and unworthy?"

_That_ got a reaction, but certainly not the one he was hoping for!

"Shut up! Just shut up!" she shrieked. "This is all your fault! Your fault that I came to this godforsaken place, your fault that I became this... this _thing_, your own stupid fault that you'd rather be in love with an empty memory of a woman who betrayed you than with me!"

It hadn't been what she'd intended to say. It was revealing, she'd shown him far too much of her heart in her anger (justified anger... what right had he to try and be compassionate now?), and that wasn't how they played their game. They never showed the truth of their hearts, neither she nor he was good at that and it would have made it too easy to cut it all short and end with minimal pain. The pair of them, they were both trapped separately in their own worlds of masks and self-mutilation, and she had thought if she just tried hard enough she could end the cycle, but she had been wrong and now she had tipped her hand and shown him all her cards and her sanity itself (what little she had left) hung on what he said now.

Her words stirred up a violent reaction in him. He was used to Madeleine saying much the same thing, and he was so used to shouting her down to shut her up that his response came almost automatically."Enough!" he spat viciously. "Don't you _dare_ bring Christine into this! This is between you and me!"

Unexpectedly, tears filled those blue eyes, though they did not spill over onto her cheeks. "No," she said quietly. "_Christine_ is between you and me. And she always will be. I understand that now."

She turned sharply and walked away from him, all the pain that had blessedly been absent for some hours pouring back. She wondered how the hell she had thought numbness was worse. Having her mother point out his continued infatuation with Christine had cracked her; hearing it confirmed from his own mouth had shattered her beyond repair. She wasn't sure where she was going, but the wrenching in her gut drove her away from him as rapidly as she could go without running and losing that last tiny scrap of dignity..

Erik stared after her swiftly retreating form, feeling truly wretched. He had upset her. He really hadn't meant to. She just had an infuriating way of saying just the right thing to dig under his skin and irritate him past the point of reason. And now he had gone and upset her, when really he had just intended to try to help. That low ache that had settled in his heart when he had pressed his lips to her forehead, which he had successfully ignored for the past twenty-four hours, took up an insistent throbbing.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered.

* * *

**A/N2-** Short chapter, I know. But that was just how this was going to go, I'm afraid. Apparently when I said "no more angst" I was lying out my ass. Not that that should surprise anyone, the way this story's going. Yeah, I know everyone's pissed and upset... and it's gonna get worse before it gets better, but we WILL hit a happy place before this tale is done, I promise you. I just have to torture everybody to the point of madness first. ;)

Reviews, por favor?


	8. Gray Sea and Sky Blue Eyes

**A/N-** I listened to the entirety of LND again today instead of writing a term paper. Once again it's been confirmed to me that I have an intense love/hate relationship with the whole thing. On the one hand, they introduced _so many_ great themes for me to play on (like all the incredible nuances in the first scene of Act II, with Meg and Raoul... that is one LAYERED scene, my friends! Best bit of the entire show, IMHO), but at the same time... it's basically all Christine's fault. She was the one who started the cascade of OOCness. It was Christine's OOC actions that made both Raoul and Erik behave OOC in reaction, and Meg only got OOC because of Erik's OOCness (Mme. Giry has no excuse). I therefore stipulate that everyone is technically in-character except Christine, and Raoul and Meg are the victims, not Erik and Christine.  
Not entirely happy with this chapter, but it's been tweaked to death so that's to be the end of it.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Gray Sea and Sky Blue Eyes**

The quarters that had been allotted to the Chagnys' use for the duration of their stay were nicely furnished. Fine oak furniture, which was ornate but tastefully crafted, appointed the parlor and a pair of high bay windows had the gauzy curtains flung aside to let in the sunlight. The rooms themselves had been designed to take the most advantage of natural light; clearly whoever had designed the building was a brilliant architect. The Vicomte had his suspicions about just who that might be. This only proceeded to irk him further at having been forced to ask to stay while Christine was away.

Raoul paced the room irritably for several hours after breakfast. Christine's parting words continued to torment him.

_I love you both._

He had known. He had known for years that she had not let go of her Angel of Music, but he had never _imagined _she felt that strongly. It stabbed at him on the inside. Just as he had so many times over the last ten years, he wished suddenly and violently that Christine were here so that he could have it out with her. And just as he had so many times over the last ten years, he swallowed the impulse. It ran down into the pit of his stomach and sat, sick and low inside him, and the urge to burn it away with whiskey was overpowering.

He wouldn't, though. He couldn't. The encounter with the Phantom on the morning of the concert had opened his eyes. He could not keep living like this, taking his anger with Christine out on himself, because even then he hurt her unintentionally. The drinking was supposed to be a way to stop the pain without hurting her, too, but he could see now that it didn't work. It only made him prone to angry outbursts over inconsequential things instead of the important, festering problem.

No more. If by some miracle she still loved him when she returned, he had to become the man she had fallen in love with once again. He couldn't turn back the years and he couldn't undo the hurt, but he could leave it behind, just as Mlle. Giry had said.

For that reason he walked out of the room, not bothering to put on his jacket, good manners be damned, and not sparing not a single backward glance toward the bottle of gin that had been tormenting him for the past half hour from its place on the bureau.

It was a fair autumn day, warm for October, and there was not a cloud in sight as far as the eye could see in the vividly blue sky. The sun beat down from overhead, bathing the world in sunshine that glinted off the buildings of Manhattan in the distance. A soft breeze, cool without being chilly, sprung up from the ocean and swept across the deserted park. Raoul ambled across the grounds with no particular destination in mind, just enjoying the fine weather. It reminded him of when he'd been young and naive, before Christine Daae had sung _Hannibal_, before his world had been turned upside-down by the mad affair of a disfigured genius. He had been carefree once upon a time, hadn't he? There had been a time when he hadn't had this heavy, unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

His thoughts were distracted quite suddenly as he reached the empty pier and saw a lone figure standing out upon it. Even from a fair distance, the figure was easily identifiable as Meg Giry by the way she held herself. She still looked like a ballerina after all these years. Her blonde curls were caught up in the wind off the sea, whipping around her head like a whirlwind of spun gold in the sunshine. She was standing at the very end of the pier, her left arm wrapped loosely around one of the tall wooden piles that jutted up at the side, leaning forward into the wind. Her purple skirt flapped about her ankles and a long red scarf was tied about her neck, flapping out behind her like a scarlet flag.

A sudden twisting sense of foreboding lodged itself in him. He had not had the opportunity to enquire after Meg since the evening of the concert, but he had seen the bandages on her wrists that night. It was easy to guess what had happened, and something in her posture made him uneasy. Who knew what she was thinking?

He walked swiftly down the pier, only prevented from running by the worry that he might be mistaken in her intentions. No need to look like even more of a fool than he already did. She glanced briefly at him when he reached her side and acknowledged him with a tiny nod before returning her gaze to the far horizon.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle," he said politely, now uncertain how to enter conversation. He would not do her the disservice of revealing what he feared was in her heart.

She forced a little smile at him, though her eyes never left the water. "Good afternoon," she returned absentmindedly.

Yes, he had been right. He could see it in her face. Whatever had happened to Meg Giry to make her so hopeless, it was eating her out from the inside and she was not safe from herself. There was a look in her sapphire eyes that he recognized. With that empty despair in them, they might have been his own blue eyes at certain points over the last ten years. He knew what she was feeling, and considering what he surmised had happened two nights previously, it wasn't hard to guess what she was considering. He remembered what she had said the morning before the concert about the sea.

"Do you mind if I sit?" he asked. He was relying on what little he knew of her character to guide him. It would be shocking bad manners to sit while she remained standing, but with his request, the situation changed. The Meg he had known many years before was too well-mannered not to save him from an awkward moment by sitting herself.

It seemed he had wagered correctly, because with a shrug, she lowered herself onto the whitewashed boards. He sat down beside her, congratulating him on this first success. For a minute or so, he was silent, contemplating his next move. Should he confront her directly with his suspicions or just continue to use her own innate politeness as a way to manipulate her from whatever ledge she had found herself on without offending her pride?

She took the matter out of his hands. "Christine left rather abruptly," she commented.

"Yes. She needed time to think, she said."

Meg quirked an eyebrow. "What on earth does that mean?"

"Damned if I know," he replied, answering her own look with an ironic smirk. Then his expression sank a little as he wondered how to subtly address what he really wanted to talk about. "I... I think she disliked the idea of leaving you, though. If she weren't so terribly angry with _me_, I doubt anything could have dragged her from your side."

She snorted. "I suppose someone's told you the whole sordid story, then?"

He shook his head quickly. "No. Christine didn't bother to say much before she left, and _he_ certainly wouldn't talk about something like that to me, of all people." He hesitated, then: "Forgive me for being indelicate, Mlle. Giry, but you are... alright, aren't you? I mean, I don't really know what's happened but you seem..." He trailed away, unsure how to continue.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "It's... I don't know."

Silence fell between them for some time as Raoul struggled to find a way to respond, a way to comfort her. "Did I ever thank you?" he asked quite suddenly, his lips moving as if of their own accord.

She looked up at him abruptly. "What?"

"All those years ago, at the opera... you were the only one who believed me when I insisted that something was wrong with Christine, at the beginning. You knew even before I did, really. And I learned from Firmin and Andre after... well, after _everything_, just how much you had done to protect her when I wasn't able to be there."

Meg's small smile looked a little more genuine now, her eyes a little softer. "How could I do anything else? Christine and I have known each other since we were tiny. She is like a sister to me, even now."

"Yes, I know," he responded, glad to have her talking now. "She spoke of you often over the years. We searched for you, you know, after the fire. She wished more than anything for you to be her maid of honor at our wedding... her dear sister Meg, she said, it couldn't possibly be anyone else. I sent messages to every dance academy and ballet company in Paris trying to locate you."

She let out a chuckle with a bitter edge to it. "You would have done better to search the cellars of the opera," she informed him.

His curiosity was now thoroughly caught once again. "You were down below in those horrid caverns?" he inquired, amazed.

"Do you remember that night?" she asked. "The night of the fire?"

"As if it were yesterday," he confirmed. "You offered to go with me in pursuit of the monster."

She nodded, a pained expression on her face at his phrasing. He reminded himself that she knew the Phantom quite well and resolved to try and be polite when referring to him around her in future.

"Yes," she said. "I've always been a silly girl, I suppose. Everyone says so. I always have bigger dreams than I have any right to. I suppose I thought I could do something brave and heroic and then finally, finally I would have something for myself. I wouldn't just be plain Little Giry anymore. I would be the brave girl who rescued Christine Daae from the Phantom of the Opera. How foolish it seems now, but I wanted to save her. It sounds selfish put that way, but don't I have a right to be a little selfish? I have never had anything for myself."

She did not sound now as if she were speaking to him. She was talking mostly to herself. He understood this, too. Hadn't there been times over the years when he had felt everything would get better if he could just finally say what troubled him? Hadn't he so often felt full to bursting with words and recriminations that went unspoken? Meg was full to the top and though he didn't know the whole story, it was clear she had been pushed past the breaking point and now all those words were pouring out at the first opportunity. The pressure had been released and it was all spilling out.

"Well, I certainly found an adventure that night," she continued in the same ruminating tone, "But it wasn't anything like what I had expected. I found him after you left. He was... Well, devastated seems like too small a word." She shook her head, suddenly seeming to remember his presence. "Oh, but he wouldn't like you knowing that, would he? He'd like you and Christine both to think of him as unbreakable. He'd like the whole _world_ to think of him as unbreakable. But not me. I first met him without masks, without defenses or armor or all his stupid pride, and I know what he's like behind the façade. He's never been able to hide from me."

Raoul did not speak for fear of interrupting her and making her stop. He sensed that she needed this. She needed to purge this from her heart or it would eat at her forever. He owed Meg Giry, and this was the only way he was capable of repaying her. He could not pay her in his current financial state (not that money was the way to repay the kind of debt he owed her) and he could not undo what the years had done to her, but he could hear this. He could listen to her confess whatever it was she held locked inside her troubled mind. It was what Christine would expect of him.

"Poor, unhappy Erik," she sighed, and upon seeing his puzzled expression, she nodded. "Yes, Erik, that's his name. It took me a week to coax it out of him... he'd half-forgotten it."

Briefly, he felt a strange surge of compassion for the man who had been forced to hide like an animal beneath the opera house and who hadn't been called by his own name for so long it was hard to recall. Quickly, he tamped down on it. His loyalty was to Christine and to Meg by proxy, and whether he had good reason or not, this Erik had hurt Meg deeply in some way. No sympathy for the devil.

"I love him, you know," Meg continued sadly. "I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't, and he's never given me reason to, but I do. And he doesn't want me. He's only ever wanted her."

At this, Raoul couldn't help but speak. "Oh, and don't I know how that is!" he exclaimed.

She looked at him curiously with those wide blue eyes and her expression was strange. "Yes, I suppose you do, to an extent."

"It seems we're more alike than one might guess, Mademoiselle."

"Please... it's just Meg," she said. "And to be fair, there's one crucial difference between us, Vicomte."

"And what is that?"

"Christine does love you."

He raised a sardonic eyebrow at her. "At times I'm not so sure," he told her. "She's told me outright that she loves that m- she loves him."

Meg smirked. "Nevertheless. Believe me, she loves you. The day you first came to the opera, she told me the whole story about the sweet boy she had known as a child, who ran into the ocean fully clothed to rescue her scarf, and her love for you only grew stronger by the day. True, I haven't seen her in years until just this past week, but once she gives someone her affection she never takes it away. If she loved you then, she loves you now. I, on the other hand, have not a hope of having my love returned. I gave up everything. I became a woman I hardly recognize when I look in the mirror, and all for nothing. I should loathe him, for turning me into this person I've become, but I cannot. No matter how much I want to... I can't hate him."

He was tempted to argue with her on her first statement, but he'd had enough wallowing in self-pity to last him a lifetime. He settled for simply passing neutral comment on her second assertion. "Quite a quandary."

They lapsed into silence for several minutes, the quiet broken only by the sound of her scarf snapping back and forth in the wind. Despite the fact that they knew each other so little, despite the fact that she had just said many things he knew she must hold close to her heart, the silence between them was strangely comfortable. That didn't surprise him. He recalled those early days at the opera, after the disastrous masquerade when he had spent weeks standing guard outside Christine's door. Sometimes Meg had joined him, and even though she was so young she had radiated an aura of assuredness that he had found strange in a woman but oddly comforting. That was still there, but it was wildly at odds with what she had just divulged and that unnerved him.

After some time Raoul said softly, "What are you going to do?" He wasn't entirely certain whether he was speaking to Meg or to himself.

She shook her head, blonde curls tumbling about her shoulders. "I haven't the faintest idea," she said. Then her posture changed subtly and a change came over her face. "I don't know what I'm going to do, but I do know one thing. I have to get out. I can't be here anymore. This place is poison and _he_... well, I just don't think I can be around him any longer. Is that terribly weak of me?"

"No. Not at all. I think it's tremendously brave to be able to admit that."

She smiled, and though it was small and a little tentative, it looked more genuine than any of her bitter false grins of the past few minutes. Once again they sank into companionable quiet for a few minutes before she said, "I think I ought to be going back now. Maman will be wondering where I am and she's been worried enough lately."

"Would you like me to accompany you back?" he offered.

"No thank you. I'll be perfectly alright." She got to her feet and made as if to leave, but then she paused. "Monsieur Chagny, I... I may have said some things I didn't entirely mean to reveal. Can I rely on your discretion?"

"Of course, Meg!"

"My thanks, Monsieur. And... thank you."

"For what?" he asked, puzzled.

"You're a very good listener, old friend." With a mysterious little grin on her face she turned and swept away up the pier, as light of foot as ever she was during her days at the opera.

Raoul watched her go, feeling very strange inside. For a moment, it was as though he had been transported back ten years to a time when he was just a foolish young patron of the arts, when he had not been unmanned by his wife's betrayal, when he was still a person he could respect. Meg's plight struck a chord within him. They were trapped in strangely similar positions, neither of them happy with who they had become. Meg did not know what she was going to do any better than he did, but from what she'd said, she seemed to have come to some kind of decision. She had taken a resolution. He would do the same. He would become a man whose eyes he could meet in the mirror once again.

And he would start by having a few words with this Mister Y.


	9. The Phoenix

**A/N-** Wow, guys, so sorry I left you hanging so long! suscintilla vanished off the face of the earth (no worries, I'm in contact with her, I know the details, TOATP _will_ get finished, promise, even if I have to write it for her) and with her not around to be my sounding board, my inspiration ran off down the well. Throw in the fact that the pure concentrated awesomeness of Victor Hugo distracted me... well, you get where I'm going, right?

Also, Ramin and Sofia and the rest have been unceremoniously fired because ALW is a prick. I propose an angry letter.

* * *

**Chapter 8: The Phoenix**

The Vicomte de Chagny burst in unannounced. As the door rebounded violently off the wall, Erik longed fervently for the days when not a living soul was entirely certain where he lived. The Ayrie was far too public.

"What do you want?" he barked.

The younger man was without a jacket, his eyes clearer than Erik had seen them since his arrival the week before, and his posture was reminiscent of a duelist preparing for a fight to the death. "I have come, Monsieur le Fantome, to tell you two things. The first is that I think you have used Mademoiselle Giry quite atrociously. She's a remarkable woman, and while I don't know the circumstances-"

"Yes, that's right," Erik interrupted silkily, working to stem the flood of slightly homicidal thoughts the Vicomte's words stirred up. "You do _not_ know the circumstances. And you would do well not to speak on things you do not know about, Vicomte."

His blue eyes narrowed threateningly. "No, Monsieur le Fantôme, I will say what needs to be said! Mlle. Giry is a good girl, and from my own- admittedly limited- experience with her, she strikes me as a very capable, very strong young woman, and the extent to which you have degraded her is simply atrocious. I will not stand for it any longer."

"That's funny," Erik muttered, "Because it seems as if most nights, once you've a few bottles inside you, you cannot stand."

Raoul looked as if he wanted to retort sharply to Erik's little dig, but he plainly understood the warning running underneath the apparently simple insult, and changed his direction.

"Be that as it may, I _do_ know how things stand between us, and I feel it necessary to inform you that I won't give up." He drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable though it did not compare to Erik's own impressive stature. "With what Christine told me when last I spoke with her, I gather she has no intention of abiding by the terms of our bet. Therefore, as gentlemen-" He gave the word a certain inflection which indicated just how generous he felt he was being in applying the term to his rival. Erik did not particularly care. The Vicomte's opinion of him mattered very little. "-As gentlemen I feel it would be best that we consider the bet off and allow Christine to know her own mind. Be warned, Phantom, I will fight for her."

"Is that what you call what you've been doing thus far?" Erik sneered.

It was obvious that maintaining any semblance of politeness was costing the Vicomte a great deal of effort. "I know I've made mistakes," he said, "But neither has Christine been blameless in this affair. If she will give me another chance and we can learn to forgive each other, be aware that you will not be given another opportunity to confuse her heart."

"Say what you will," Erik said airily, "I think we both know what Christine will choose. We have a son."

He very nearly regretted the words upon seeing all the blood drain from the Vicomte's face. He knew Raoul was aware of Gustave's parentage, or at the very least was aware that there was some question, but it was obviously a thought that caused the young man a great deal of distress. Erik felt he shouldn't care that he was so visibly upset, but Raoul had irked him far less than usual since their reacquaintance. Perhaps it was just the fact seeing how low the Vicomte had sunk since their last meeting beneath the opera house. Or perhaps, Erik considered wryly, he himself had finally grown up. Meg always did tell him he behaved like a child; maybe he'd matured more than he thought despite his determination otherwise.

Raoul nodded slowly, looking almost as if he had slipped into a trance. "Good day to you," he said in a tone completely devoid of any emotion. He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Erik alone with his thoughts.

He told himself it hardly mattered that he'd upset the oaf. The Vicomte hardly mattered to him, after all. And yet... he still felt strange about the entire encounter. True, it had been Raoul who had forced his company upon him, and it had been Raoul who set the tone of the discussion, but Erik couldn't help but feel that perhaps bringing up Gustave had been a bit of a low blow. Even monsters have their honor.

Then again, Chagny hadn't seemed to have any problem bringing up Meg, and that certainly _was_ a low blow. It wasn't his fault that she'd tried to kill herself! It _wasn't_! It wasn't his fault anymore than it had been Christine's fault that he had lost his mind so completely all those years ago at the opera!

Except, he knew that wasn't really true. His insanity over Christine had been entirely of his own making. Meg's plight was as much his fault as it was anyone's (though he thought with some relish that at least part of the blame could be conferred on Madeleine). And he only seemed to succeed in making it worse with everything he did. The Vicomte had no right to bring that up, not when it was so fresh!

* * *

_One more bottle..._

_This doesn't count. It doesn't._

_Tomorrow, it'll all be better and I'll stop but tonight- one more drink, barkeep, just one more!- tonight I need this, tonight I need not to feel Christine's rejection, tonight I need not to hear his words echoing round and round in my head... round and round and round and round and round and round and..._

_"We have a son." _

_God, man, can't you pour any faster? __It's so fucking ironic, not even a week ago, I said the exact same words to him, as a taunt... right here, wasn't it? right in this very room... I thought it would be the fastest way to shut him up, cool his obsession at last, no man wants to be saddled with a son that isn't his... no man wants... but God, the sick thing is I do because Gustave, he is mine, Christine said so maybe I'm not his father but he's my son MINE I was there, I was there, wasn't I, I was there when he was born I was there when he was just a wee thing taking his first steps I was there when he was learning to play the piano I was-_

_I was drunk._

_The whole time._

_Oh God._

_...bartender, one more!_

* * *

The new day was only a few minutes old when Meg entered the smoky dockside establishment. She looked around furtively, feeling awkward and misplaced. She spent so much time here, not drinking but rather on the lookout for her morning coffee, or as one of her usual meeting place for... customers. Coming to Suicide Hall for anything else was strange. But she didn't know who else to turn to.

"Bernie?" she called out hesitantly.

Behind the bar, a dark-headed man in possession of a red face, broad shoulders, and a strong Brooklyn accent looked up at where she stood by the door. Immediately, his face broke into a wide grin and he hurried around to greet her. "Miss Meg!" he exclaimed, clasping her hands. "Been a few days since I seen you! I was getting worried!"

She smiled. Bernie was a good friend to her. She was well-liked in this part of town (and, ironically, unlike elsewhere, it almost seemed as if it were for herself rather than her body), but he was the only person with whom she spent any serious amount of time conversing with. Like all bartenders, he always knew more than he was letting on, but he rarely judged anyone (or if he did, he kept it strictly to himself), and he always seemed pleased to see her, unlike _some _people she could mention...

"Hello, Bernie," she said.

"Miss Meg, you know that guy, right? I remember you were talking the other day...?" He tilted his head toward the bar, where a golden-haired man sat, sagging red-eyed over a half-empty glass, looking as if he'd slip off his stool and onto the floor at any moment. Meg immediately recognized the sad figure of Raoul.

She sighed. "Yes, I know him. He's my sister's husband."

"He won't be vertical long," Bernie confided in an undertone.

"That's pretty obvious."

"What should we do with him?" he asked.

Meg shrugged. "He's staying at Phantasma for awhile. If you can find a way to get him back there, he ought to be alright. He's harmless, really, he shouldn't give you much trouble. Listen, Bernie, I need a favor."

"Anything, doll."

"Do you have any kerosene?"

* * *

Bernie was a little disturbed by the whole thing. "Won't... _he_... mind?" he had questioned.

"No, he's rich as Midas now. He won't miss a few cheap costumes," she had responded resolutely.

Bernie had helped her straight off after that, but he had left her to it once it was done.

Meg stood on the beach where she had spent so many hours swimming at dawn, listening to the waves crashing against the sand just a few yards away. She looked at the pile of old costumes she had worn over the course of the season, and a bitter smile twisted her lips. Here was the Ooh La La Girl personified, here in the garish clothes so revealing, even though there were dozens of outfits the heap hardly reached her knees. The acrid odor of kerosene reached her nose, evidence of Bernie's kindness.

She struck a match and dropped it on the pile. Immediately the fabric flared up, gouts of fire shooting up toward her. Meg briefly felt as if it were the fires of hell reaching up to drag her down for her sins. She jumped back, heart beating wildly.

Then she shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I'm being silly."

For many long minutes, she watched it burn. This was the Ooh La La Girl's funeral pyre. She was done, she was finished.

As with all fires that burn hot and fierce, the blaze did not last long, and as it died away to glowing embers, Meg turned away. The Ooh La La Girl had perished by fire. It was time for Meg Giry to rise from the ashes, like a phoenix.


	10. Mr Aligieri and Mr Thomas

**A/N-** Just so we're clear, this chapter picks up about a week and a half after where the last one left off.

Also, it was WEIRD to write a scene with Meg in it and NOT write it through her eyes! *freaks out*

* * *

**Chapter 9: Mr. Aligieri and Mr. Thomas**

Rodolfo Aligieri was a promising baritone in his youth, and he had been carefully groomed for the stage of La Scala in particular. When he was twenty-six, however, a lingering battle with pneumonia damaged his voice beyond redemption, and his path was diverted from performance to teaching. For thirty years he had held a position at the conservatory in Milan, during which time he had married and been made a widower not many years later. At the age of sixty, he had emigrated to America to be closer to his younger brother, the only family he had left in the world, and he had been living comfortably in Manhattan ever since.

He was a warm old gentleman, not wealthy, but he managed to live well on the income from the voice lessons he continued to give in the studio at the rear of his apartment. At heart, he was very much the sort of pleasant Italian artist who was perfectly content to enjoy his semi-retirement and lavish his time on his small circle of friends.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon on a cold, sunny afternoon in early October when a light rapping at his front door roused him from a nap.

He waited a few moments, hoping the young lady he employed as a cook and housekeeper would get the door, but she was either inattentive or had gone out, and it fell to him to respond. He rose from his seat in the warm sun streaming through the window, and answered the knocking. When he pulled back the door, his wizened face broke into a delighted grin at the sight that greeted him. Meg Giry stood on his doorstep, her sunshine hair piled up elegantly atop her head, dressed in a high-collared steel grey gown in a style that was very fashionable in Paris at that time. She offered him a hesitant little smile.

"Signorina Meg!" he exclaimed. "It has been many months since I saw you! When was your last lesson?"

"February," she said with an abashed expression.

He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "Well, come in! Come in, my dear!" He stepped aside to allow her entrance to his modest apartments.

With the familiarity of one who knows their surroundings very well, Meg made her way straight for the studio. Signor Aligieri followed her as quickly as his rheumatism would allow. When he caught up to her he found her at the piano, absently stroking the keyboard and bringing forth a few soft tones as her fingers depressed keys. There was a faraway look in her eyes.

"What brings you back to me?" Aligieri asked happily. "_Surely_ you are not here for a lesson, not after all this time!"

Meg caught the teasing in his voice and smiled again. "As a matter of fact, Maestro, that's exactly what I'm after."

He shooed her away from the piano bench, and she took her usual place beside the piano, her hand resting delicately on the case. The sunlight caught on her pallid skin and tangled in her hair and lit up her vividly blue eyes to great effect. Aligieri, in the process of stretching his stiff fingers in preparation, paused momentarily to feel a stab of pity for this young woman. He had known her for years, had watched her rise, had watched her fall, had trained her magnificent voice, and he could read her like a book. He knew when she was unhappy. She was very unhappy now. But he wouldn't say a word unless she did.

"Now," he said briskly. "Let us see what eight months of that vaudeville trash your patron had you singing has done to that voice of yours, and see if we can repair the damage."

"I was careful," she said.

"I'm sure you were."

He gave her a chord, and with the ease of one who is long familiar with their art, she immediately began a series of vocal slides to warm up, ascending up through her two and a half octave range right to the very top. It was her top range that he was most pleased with, he thought to himself as he guided her through a series of simple warm-ups devised to test out her voice after months of misuse. She had a very thrilling high range, with a very broad sound, lacking the shrillness that too many sopranos displayed in the upper register. The warmth in her lower range was fine, reminiscent of a mezzo, actually, which was why she had been categorized as such for so many years before her flute range began to develop. But it was up at the top that Meg Giry truly shone.

About forty minutes later, when he felt certain her voice was suitably warmed up, he progressed without comment from the series of scales he'd had her on right into an aria from _Lucrezia Borgia_; Meg kept pace with him without missing a note. She was used to this.

The piece was a particular favorite of his, and Meg had a particular sensitivity for the aria. His fingers moved across the keys with very little guidance from himself, and he paid far closer attention to her voice than to the notes he was playing. He listened with a keen ear to the nuances of her voice, the slight bright color eight months of showtunes had given her voice, the little hitches around her upper pissagio where she'd always had a bit of trouble transitioning out of the middle voice...

Meg rounded off the final phrase and he sat back, satisfied with his analysis.

"Well, my dear," he said, "Cleaning all that up will be a great deal of work, no?"

"I did not expect anything less," she replied. "Maestro..."

She hesitated.

"What is it, _piccolo_?"

"I am done with Phantasma."

"I'm delighted to hear that."

She nibbled nervously on her lower lip and her hands fidgeted with themselves. "I... I wanted to ask you... is there any chance at all I could yet make a career as a singer? At the opera, I mean? I've come to miss it so much..."

Aligieri removed his spectacles thoughtfully. After a few seconds of polishing them idly on his shirt, he spoke quite deliberately, "I think it is entirely possible, vocally speaking. You have picked up a few bad habits, it is true, but nothing we cannot work out with a few months hard study. You are in possession of one of the more remarkable voices I have ever had the opportunity to develop- among sopranos, at any mark. However, Signorina, I must be frank with you..."

He broke off, hesitant to continue.

"What? Whatever it is, I can do better!" Meg assured him hurriedly.

"Meg, you know I care for you dearly. You have been my student for many years, and you know I would not say something like this if it did not very much need to be said..."

"Go on."

"The world of opera is at least as much about playing the game- you know, pleasing the directors, having the right things said about you in the papers, that sort of thing- as it is about the music. To enter that world, a singer- _especially_ a potential prima donna- must have not only a pure voice, but a reputation to match. Now, I may only be an old man, out of the way of all these fancy people with their social columns and their gossip, but even I know things. And I know that your reputation, Meg... it is not going to be an asset to you."

Meg's face crumpled under his words and she looked as though she were about to cry. At that moment, however, a voice issued from the doorway.

"I believe I can help with that."

Both Meg and Aligieri looked up, startled to see a stranger in the house. He was a tall man, slender and strong, gloriously handsome, with pale blonde hair and warm green eyes. He was well-dressed in the most fashionable style, and he carried his hat in his hand.

"Forgive me for interrupting," the man said in a mellifluous voice that bore, as Meg's did, the slightest trace of a French accent, barely detectible. "The maid let me in, and I could not help but overhear."

"If I may ask who you are?" Aligieri questioned, rather affronted to have a stranger in his studio.

"Oh, of course, I do apologize," the stranger replied, looking abashed. "My name is-"

"-Drake Thomas," Meg finished for him, eyes going wide.

"Indeed," he replied. "It is a delight to see you again, Miss Giry."

"Meg? You know this person?" Aligieri asked.

Meg turned pink. "He... uh..."

"I happened to see Miss Giry perform at the beginning of the season at Phantasma," Mr. Thomas explained. "I must admit, I was rather smitten with her, and called on her a few times. She never seemed to have the time to discover whether she might return my interest."

Meg went a few shades darker.

"Oh, not to worry," he said with a laugh. "I know all too well that a pretty girl of your talents must have many admirers and... well... the Ooh La La Girl in particular had something of a reputation, so I was not too offended by your coldness."

Rather than reassuring her as they seemed to have been intended, these words served, if her determined staring at her feet was any indication, only to embarrass her still further.

"Though," Mr. Thomas added, "If I may say so, you are more beautiful than ever, mademoiselle." Taking Meg's gloved hand, he pressed a formal kiss to her knuckles.

Meg turned yet one shade pinker, but now she had a pleased smile on her face.

"So, then," Aligieri asked, "You are here to call on the Signorina?" It seemed a most untoward thing to do.

Mr. Thomas shook his head, smiling. "As a matter of fact, no. I hadn't the faintest idea that the two of you were acquainted. I was actually hoping to speak to you, Maestro Aligieri."

"Concerning?"

"Well, you see, in addition to my success as a speculator in the steel industry- or rather, perhaps because of it- I also happen to be a patron and producer at the Metropolitan Opera. Now, the reason I have sought you out is simple. At the Met, we always strive to reach new artistic heights, as you will appreciate. Our director wants to further this goal by featuring new, fresh talent in our upcoming season. And, as you of course understand, auditions are not a foolproof method of finding such talent. Therefore, you may consider me a scout, of sorts. I am approaching you as the well-respected instructor of voice that you are, with the hope that perhaps you would be able to give us direction in our search."

Aligieri nodded slowly. "I see," he said noncommittally.

Receiving no more lengthy reply, Mr. Thomas, who appeared an endless and eloquent talker, turned to Meg and said, "And on that note, I must confess I was eavesdropping for rather a long time. You have a stupendous voice, if I may say so, Miss Giry. Your performances at Phantasma simply does not do you credit."

"And yet, as you doubtless heard," Meg replied, not without bitterness, "I am likely to remain unemployed in any more respectable venue."

"Actually, as I said upon entering," Mr. Thomas said, "I may be able to help you in that regard. As a producer, I hold a great deal of sway over our director and our casting- not full control, of course, but enough influence that if I were to favor a particular soprano, it is likely that she would be given... _proper_ consideration."

Meg nodded. "I see," she said, and as had become almost a habit by this point, a tiny hint of coyness had entered her tone.

"You would, of course, have to take a stage name-"

"I wouldn't expect anything else!" she replied.

Mr. Thomas looked to Aligieri. "There is to be a gala concert in a few months time. Would it be possible for Miss Giry to be have something prepared by then?"

"I imagine if we drew on her established repertoire we could arrange something suitable," Aligieri said stiffly, and looked at Meg. "Signorina, I am not sure I like this. I understand it is an appealing opportunity, and a skill such as yours should not be wasted, but for a woman whose reputation is already questionable, this is perhaps not the best way to go about gaining an entrance into-"

"Maestro, it's not much use," Meg said with a sad, sweet smile on her face. "It may be indelicate of me to say so, but I have already damaged my reputation beyond repair. I am not naive about this. Taking a stage name and accepting Mr. Thomas's gracious offer of his assistance may be my best chance at really doing this."

Aligieri hesitated, but nodded. "I suppose in that case, this may be possible. You know I only wish the best for you, _piccolo_."

Meg smiled.

Mr. Thomas nodded. "Well then, it seems we are agreed. Maestro, I will leave my address with your servant. If you should think of any talents besides this glorious young lady who might lend their voices to us in coming years, I would ask you to forward the names to me directly, please."

The pair of them shook hands, then Mr. Thomas turned to Meg.

He flashed her a charming smile, and took her hand in his once more. "Mademoiselle..." he murmured, dropping a second kiss on her hand. Meg blushed once more. "I shall try to arrange a special audition with the director and our resident conductor as quickly as possible. If you would care to discuss the details with me, perhaps we might meet for lunch to talk it over?"

Meg, charmed despite herself, nodded. "That would be lovely," she replied graciously. "You no doubt remember how to reach me?"

"Of course," he assured her. He stepped away from her. "Good day to you both." He walked from the room with all the grace and elegance of a feline.

Aligieri looked at Meg, who had a little smile on her face and, not for the first time, marveled at how much she had changed from the sweet young girl of twenty he had met when she had first begun studying with him. He was not entirely convinced that the change was in any way for the better. He sighed, then composed himself to speak to her.

"Alright then, if we are to have anything performance-ready, we had better start work immediately..."


	11. Trailer

**A/N-** Hi everybody! Do not fear this author's note, it's not a horrible thing, I promise. Well, mostly not-horrible.

Guess what?

Ace has writer's block. Severely.

Also, this whole "opera singer in training" thing? Yeah, it takes up crazy amounts of time. My ability to make audiences weep with my interpretations of Puccini is improving, but my ability to have the time to lounge around and write? Yeah, definitely not improving.

Buuuuuut I have a treat for you all while you wait! A little while ago I _did_ have some free time, and while the writer's-block thing kept me from putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as the case may be), I made a trailer for this story. Some of you may enjoy watching it... and while it does kind of give a few things away about this story, no REAL spoilers, just little tiny hints.

Link to the trailer is as follows (complete with spaces to circumvent FFn's ridiculous policy on links):

**www . youtube . com /watch?v=QDex08sGvSE**

Enjoy the trailer, and I ask you to please be patient on this (and all my other stories, in their various fandoms), while I try to sort out the writer's block issue, okay?

Thank you for your time!


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